Damned women…

Day four in Paris and I am scouting the streets. Every day, every month should count despite the vexing inconsistency of the women on the streets, the gorgeous butch girls on the metro with shaved legs and Bermuda shorts. I am an observer when I desire to interfere. I can only watch despite dying to touch. As of yet, I have not ventured into the nightlife. My connection to E, my life 7,900 miles away still haunts me from the computer and scent of Avignon on my chest and hair, as though she can kiss me through time and space. She would not mind, but there is a mental hesitation as I make excuses for myself.

I locked eyes with a riveting woman today. My flamboyance speeds ahead of my imagined hubris and I let my magenta pants do the talking. With the casual language barrier, I am too shy to speak just yet. Right now, there is only the possibility, the potential of beautiful evenings and intensity ebbing and flowing along the river Seine. It is that possibility that will keep me smirking, keep me walking long into the dark, cool evening as I tread to paths unknown.

I am the Camionneuse, the aloof butch, the bohemian baby. Welcome to my musings.


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