white highland terrier, splayed on the cool floor of the chat noir, whose wooden and glass walls have been drawn back to ventilate a warm day. it rains, without menace. the owner of the restaurant across the street stands in the door with his arms crossed over his chest. rené never adjusts his glasses, and he pays no mind to his doggy companion. the paper is unfolded before him, two small porcelain cups emptied of their contents, and a sparkling glass of water that catches the light and winks it under.

lucy is behind the counter. she has short cropped hair which is bleached white blond, she rarely smiles and never with teeth. quest-ce que je vous sers? she asks. for me, she just brings a coffee and smiles when i smile. we talk about her music, briefly: we are shy girls, and she is busy. demis for the crowd of workers at the bar, and peanuts. they laugh loudly, they talk about politics. back to work, boys, i think as they all file out and linger at he door smoking reluctant cigarettes before kissing each other soundly on the cheeks and shaking hands heartily. they part in different directions, two politely boisterous groups with paint on their fingers and back pockets.

rené settles his bill and white highland licks every available surface of my left hand and wrist, jumping up on chair and nosing my arms until i cup her snout in both palms and scratch from her cheeks to her haunches. rené and i exchange polite greetings and goodbyes, white highland prances out behind him.

hanna is here, we eat cereal and laugh about everything. puccini and morning stretches with the windows open to the rain. the fern and the gardenia. the deadlines, the plans. where to next where to next.

electricity, fruit flies, the old fear with a new name