A series of impossibles hung over the railing.

We washed them with our underwear in the bathtub,

lay them on the window sill to dry.

Bleach spotted pink cotton next to potted begonias.

Magnolia was my name then.

I sprawled spread eagle on the bed,

sipped

Pamplemousse juice from the mini bar.

Fresh from the shower, wrapped in terry cloth, she picked up the phone.

Yes she said into it. Oh God we’ll fly home.

No no no no.

She shook her head.

Hung up the phone.

We stayed in Paris another week, as planned.