“You’re never really there, but you’re never really gone.”
Frank said this in a stern voice, without looking at me. He handed me the train ticket to Paris, again without looking at me.
“The train for Paris will be leaving at 18:42 from platform 6” announced a loud sonic boom of a voice.
He spun around and shot off without saying goodbye.
I realised that it wasn’t about life. It wasn’t about love. It was about everything in life you didn’t want it to be.
Paris will no longer be the city of romance.
The divorce. Lovers collide. Men depart.
No comments:
Post a Comment