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Page 53.
 That evening, they spent some time in his garret. She reclined on her side on the bed, holding a glass of Perrier water. He sat at the desk with a cold tea with lemon. They had little English ladyfinger cookies for a snack.
He commented while enjoying the cookies, and wiping fine dry cookie dust from his lips: “Hard to imagine that London is barely over two hours by TGV train from here.”
“And vice-versa,” she said. “All of life has two sides, like a coin.”
“You will be a philosopher one day. Or a philosopherette.”
“I love hearing your poems when you read them in your own world here. I can imagine you sitting here, a bit sloshed, typing by moonlight. I’d love to be in your head for a few minutes, just seeing all those magnificent trains of thought going in and out of the station.”
He grinned. “Like that overpass I was telling you about.” He waved a sheet of paper. “Here’s one I wrote about a train that made my skin crawl with pleasure, pain, whatever you want to call it.”
“Longing.”
“Yes, for I don’t know what. Longing for you.”
“I love to be longed for.”
“I live to long for you. Now be quiet and let me read this before I jump on you.”
“I love being jumped on by you. But it can wait. Go on.”
He read to her #114: Rain, Traffic, Open Window.
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