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Sitting in a wicker chair covered in pillows (none of the chairs and tables match) in a café for only tea next to the drawbridge in the middle of town, music plays over the tiny radio by the counter. The ceiling sags. [The building is probably older than any building I have been in in the States.] The walls have pictures, mostly of women. Some nude, some old pictures. Two older ladies are cleaning up in the back as I am the only customer. [I theorize that they are an old lesbian couple.] They take their leave after eatting some salads to sit at the table just outside and next to the door to smoke and continue their conversation. All I can see of them is through the door one of their hands hanging down with a cigarette.


The radio anouncer says something in French I don’t quite catch. Drums start to play. “Send me a letter….” the song is so smooth, the tempo of his voice quickens, “she sold her soul for a flat by the sea.” I think of a redhead that I know who is in love with the sea and sending letters.

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