long distance

Thomas is on his way to the airport and I’m staying here. In Paris it’s raining and the hotel room is a box with a white bed in it, slung below windows between the backs of other buildings. The rain makes the city the idea of the city, all water-stained ivory buildings with their long grand windows and balconies blinking down damp avenues. In New York it’s going to snow and I’m hoping Thomas’ flight will be delayed because I am essentially selfish and want him here longer and don’t want to have to think about him flying into snow, about landing conditions and the freezing body of water bounding the airport at JFK.

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