I sit on the upper deck of a train going from la Défense to Saint Germain en Laye, the sun had already set on a Sunday afternoon and people and their families were on their way back to their homes to prepare for Monday.
I look down the Ground deck of the train and I see a couple that had just walked in. She had blonde hair that she tied in a ponytail, and he was wearing a grey t-shirt with the Monsters Inc. logo on the back. Both standing, he had wrapped his arms around the metal bar on the train, and she had her arms wrapped around his waist, although her grip was much tighter than his, she held on better than he did the bar.
This was usual, but in Paris you get to see each couple metamorphose into a complexe sculpture. The girl on the train had fit her neck under his chin, no space in between, and you could see the curves they formed together, and how closely they could turn into clay or solid granite in the Louvre Museum, where you see the rest of the curves and structures, solid; immobile.
Paris isn’t the city of love, but Of lovers who have found their cities and homes in each other. They are each other’s light and tunnels, their streets and their highways. They are their red-bricked houses and the bars they grip onto tightly. Paris is the place, but the city resides in her eyes, and his smile. Paris surely isn’t love, but all the roads they crossed to get into each other’s bodies, they all live in little mobile cities of their own.