Rue rambuteau (5e étage, sans ascenseur)

When I think to that weekend, I can’t be sure we didn’t exist there topless and with cards in wet heat for over a month at least. Short-changed from the first so that baguettes became tender and Gitanes hot like gold. Our four bright bodies boasted excess and we slept. The apartments are squares upon squares, lifted up into the city and draining noise and grease. We like it. We were piled in. Our numbers shifted; charged pints of red wine and chasing jazz out of St. Denis. The local in us proffered the river, champagne, friends, a banquette and tattoos. We ended, hovered in tandem with stomach aches and ease in the tricks smoked through 35mm.

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