The transparent plastic covers what one may never want to call a lunch, this in hand is my lunch. I pull at the ends and the incisive gives, I am sure it would have made a ruckus in a quiet room, but this, this bench in the mild of this busy office park, La Défense, isn’t. People speak in tongues I can’t manage, birds chirp maybe in French too. Though I really doubt that. I don’t really know why I come here, and maybe it’s too often. It’s the kinds of place where if you’re in love with the idea of Paris it won’t be your idea of Paris. Maybe that’s why I feel in place with a place that’s out of place. Steel wrapped in glass, the glass in its best efforts reflecting the sky. A fabrication to make these ugly structures appealing.
I, in turn, question my own probability of existences. How probable is it for me to be, or anything else in this chance of a planet to be. Even the mere thought of questioning such things gives weight to the argument and the improbability of it all. Trees move with the stiff breeze that finds its way through the tall structures. I doubt a tree would ever question its existence, it is for the most part merely here, as I am, for the most part. I begin to feel as if my own thoughts would soon become vapor, tsk’ing at its own birth as it forms in front of me. Without thinking I have the flask to my lips, the vodka burns what little is left to burn. With another look at my surroundings, I take my device and head home.
I fall onto my bed, the pillow smothers my face but it feels good. I lie on my belly for some time, maybe it was an hour. At this point, time could and will be considered irrelevant. I roll to my side, then off the bed, making little effort to catch myself I fall to the floor. Slowing picking myself up I walk to my closest, for something, but I am not sure what. My hand stops on the doorknob, I feel unsure of my reasoning for being there. Turning around I head back towards my bed. Grabbing my device, I try it figure out where to go. Satisfied, I hit my device, and my bedroom disappears.
The black soot covers most of everything, the streets are dirty, a splashing of bright colors here and there. This is the kind of Paris one could fall in love with, that is if they were the falling in love type. I walk my way down the blackened sidewalk counting each step as I took them. Locke once said, “As people are walking all the time, in the same spot, a path appears.” I find myself, or well I subconsciously without any decision really being made, walking towards the sound of music. It drifts in and out even as I close in on the source. I feel as if whatever chip was on my shoulder slide off, even a smile comes to my face. A crowd forms and a circle is made as the band plays. Summer dresses, giggles, and happiness fills the air alongside the music. I’m sure I’ve mentioned the fact that I’m a terrible dancer. Sometimes it doesn’t matter how awful you are at something, it still feels good to try. My identity melts with the rest of the faces as we dance around to the almost jazz. I am someone, just anyone.
The band packs up as the crowd disperses. I sit at a little table, I want some wine but I didn’t bring money that would work here. So I sit feeling thirsty but happy. Street lamps begin to make up for the void left by the disappearing sun. I guess this is happiness, I guess this is me happy.