All the while she cycles past the avenues filled with balconies and stairs, a loneliness greets her. It is a loneliness she has known before, in Paris. With every box of geraniums splashing red against the dark of an open window, there is loneliness for her, down here on the street. In Paris, when she was young, she imagined it was the loneliness of being single, of not having had her children, of not being with someone. She passed a doorway and looked in, and there was a woman, in a slip, in an embrace with a man who, if she compare the visuals, could not have appeared more like her own current husband if she had sent out a casting call. The same strap shirt, the same easy, large hands and stonemason’s chest. When she saw that couple she had not known she would never forget them.
Connections are never what they seem. She can go off the street of balconies now, and in her apartment there is an easygoing, beautiful man, but she feels he does not love her. Even when she lays down her writer’s mind and sits at their table with him and plays a game of cards, it is as if there is another woman, somewhere, who could be the one he should have married. It doesn’t matter that she goes to the open air market and buys three onions and two tomatoes and good bread. It doesn’t mean a thing that she makes a pot of peasant soup, or wears a short, baby-blue slip made of stretchy lace. She has come to the fundamental problem, and the problem is this: beauty is not love, and love does not exist.
On June 17th, 2009 04:44 pm (UTC), (Anonymous) commented:
Just wanted to drop a line to let you know that this, quite possibly, is one of the most beautiful things I've ever read. I am an english major at a catholic institution in the states and am constantly reminded that I do not need to many words to create my art. Unfortunately, words are my passion and my wine, and without them there is no need to continue. So, I press on, but I always find time to read your Telegram column. It gives me a peace that those studying abroad, and away from Newfoundland, find hard to seize and make use of. Thank you for your passion and giving me the will to press on to achieve mine.