©Off The Record
Mimi Wolske
All Rights Reserved
They hurried out of
the opera house,
that famous Paris
opera house;
it was pouring; there
was no umbrella.
Suddenly, he stopped,
stood in
the downpour staring
at her
as his hand found and
removed
a monogrammed, silver
cigarette case from
the inner pocket
of his tux. His eyes
never left hers
while he lit the damp
stick
of tobacco. That was
the moment,
that shot-to-the-moon
instant,
she realized sadness
floats
much the same as love
had.
Her attempt to
convince herself
everything would be
all right
was as fleeting as a
bad joke.
"Come on!"
Her voice broke
on those two simple
words
as she coaxed him
away from
what she imagined he
must be
visualizing: an end
to their happiness.
She proffered him her
public mask,
no rarity in her
writer's sack
of baubles and words.
He knew
if left in place too
long,
it would not be
removed
except in her work.
He knew,
also, there was no
such thing
as off the record —
in any language. He
remained silent.
In the wake of
destruction,
it was like slipping
on the skin
of pitch-black
yesterdays.
She tried to forget.
To breathe. To be.
The warmth once
inside her was numb
on the promises of
tomorrows.
They had strolled up
the aisle;
now they exited, one
stage left,
the other stage
right—
not just for the
night.
