TRAIN STATION FROM THE PETIT CHALET
After discovering I could enclose myself on the porch with black mink blankets, I looked up the train schedule and got on the velo to the homeowners needing a ride. I lost my black cord, limoncello soap, and burlap notebook somewhere in Europe, but decided to take the eggs, lemon yogurt, and champagne with me.
My chest was sweaty, and I pulled my hair back and the Moroccan man of the house drove slowly to the train station- telling me I wouldn't make it.
“She's a maniac” played on the radio. I wanted to explain to him - that was me. I was the maniac.
I got my ticket in slow motion- went to platform one- then saw the train pull in - several platforms away. Fucking. Bitch. Ass.
Two hands on the luggage- and run- love that I brought the eggs- and black chocolate cake, and tiny yogurts in glass jars.
In France is it de-classy to drink a full-size champagne bottle in public? I am an American.
Down the hall and up the stairs, while the French exited down the platform, I rolled up as the doors shut. A man looked at me from the inside while I pressed the button. We tried to open the doors and the train left. I felt it move away. Whimpering.
I sat in the shade and ate the lava cake with my fingers. Fuck the platform. Perhaps I’m right on time.