‘I’m sorry. Chips?’
‘Oh. No thankyou.’
I don’t know why I never said this earlier. There was a fruitfulness I could not place my trust in.
French chicks. What can you say? Poetry is in the cracks of the arrondissements.
Emilie is angry with me and worried for you. She has an aunt who is psychic and thinks I have made a terrible decision.
‘Can I get you anything else?’
‘No, thankyou. If I could have a bottle of still water, that would be fine.’
‘It’s beautiful isn’t it?’
‘This range. I have often wondered if I would not be better employed in another job, earning more money and supporting my children in a more concrete way. But I can’t get away from this range.’
I don’t have the money to come and see you, so all I can say is I hope you see the error of my ways, and have a change of heart. I know you have an anchor. But now you have seen the ocean.
I am not Pascal. I don’t believe in psychic aunts. But I want to see the ocean one more time.