Strange Strangers...

Partly obscured by the memory of the tiny images of your frame, I had glimpsed your face. It was a strange meeting. One that had all the trappings of an intimate encounter and yet we were strangers in the flesh. 

STRANGE STRANGERS!

The evening had entangled us within its mesh of coloured flecks and passing faces; molten shapes that had performed a myriad of dances in the rain. They had hidden their histories behind carefully choreographed steps that had splattered starless, moonless light into the strangeness of our meeting. 

Crockery had clattered and even though the waitress was quite friendly, she was Polish I believe, You had seemed quite nervous; shut away, and I too had offered nothing but a few awkward lines delivered to conceal my interest. It was a very sober scene. The meeting had grated; yet, we had persevered, and I took you to the Retro bar, my favourite place in town, to talk, to listen, to linger beneath the gaze of the popular singers on the walls. 

Les chansonniers disent que le plaisir rend l'âme bonne et amollit le cœur. The song had been right that evening, relative to me, and something within me had become more malleable. I had softened. I had felt relaxed enough to share the sadness of the truth, something that I rarely do, and you had listened while you placed your hand upon my thigh. How difficult it is to understand each other and how incommunicable thought is, even among people who barely know each other.