Paris 1956
I saw George the other afternoon. I recognized him right away of course, even though it’s been over a dozen years. The light and shadows falling across the street scrubbed up against buildings and left him illuminated, as though he was standing in a spotlight up on the stage. There was no mistaking that shock of red hair, though—even if it was shorter, and somewhat thinner—there was no mistaking anything about him. I wanted to call out to him. I wanted to let him know that we’d survived, in spite of everything that happened. And then I thought maybe he doesn’t want me to know he’s still alive? He’s had to give up the only thing that ever mattered to him, and maybe seeing me would just remind him of everything he’s lost? He’s known where to find me; after all, I’m quite the celebrity these days.
*
“I think I should send him the painting,” I said, looking up from the sketch pad I was drawing in.
“Why?” she asked, and with her next breath, add…
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