fitting in

I woke up this morning in Paris. Light streamed into my tiny room as I lay in my tiny bed staring at the cherubs zipping about above me. I reached out my hand oh so gently to catch one and startled them out of their playful revelry. The tiniest one, I believe his name was Max, smacked away my hand with a snarl. I shrug and swing my legs to my right-hand side, always my right hand side, and dismount the rickety bed in a fanciful flourish. Nothing is going to bring me down today for tonight I will be meeting my friends at the burlesque show for dinner, drinks, and various other forms of forbidden debauchery.

I pad my away across the cold floor softly humming Giussepe Verdi. I fling open the rococo white and gold armoire door with a loud “Ah-Ha!” No monster, he is taking the day off it appears. I shrug and pick out a crisp red turtleneck, black pants, and a black blazer. The perfect ensemble for which to haunt le musée du Louvre.

“ Papa where are you going today?”

I dab some mousse into my palm, rub my hands together like Mr. Miyagi, and press my mess of black, but graying, hair back into a neat arrangement. “Little man I am going to the museum and then I am meeting a friend at the corner café for a cup of chai tea. And then tomorrow this time, well, you and I will be spitting logeys at tourists off the Eiffel tower."

“ But we are tourists.”

I slowly turn around and look deep into his eyes… into my eyes. I hold a finger up to my mouth and shake my head. “Shhhhhhhhhh, no we live here now.”