her name was Dot

My little Parisian pied-a-terre used to belong to a woman named Dot. In fact, I think it still does. Dot is not on Earth anymore, technically, but I think she has yet to leave her little home. 

She had many properties- maybe Paris was her favorite? I read some letters from her friends and they were often reassuring: "Its ok, Dot. You are moving on to new things." and "You have excellent taste in art and friends- you have collected a great deal of both." 

She was a traveler and an artist. She was one of our clients, so I looked up her file...

In the inventory for her other Paris home, her belongings read like poetry. And "under the bed" is the best random listing of luxuries I could imagine.

Under the bed:

2 suitcases

3 good long dresses
1 sari

long gloves

various silk stoles

2 old sari dresses

red hotelplan bag with winter mittens, earmuffs, and hiking stockings

gloves: white beige, black satin, purple, summer

beaver fur coat

And my favorite listing from her closet:

scarves- dozens. 

She's not a bad flatmate at all. Who wants to drink coffee alone anyway?

grow up

crying at work count: 1

home:alone

Open the door and go inside. It is tiny and warm, stuffy but clean.

See those windows with the balcony up there? I ask. I live above those.

Throw yourself on the ancient bed, small as a mouse and creaky. Pour a glass of cheap wine into a jelly jar and kick your shoes off into the corner.

It is quiet, no? And still. Except for the humm of the groups down below in the square, chattering at the cafes and gossiping at bars.

No matter how many times you close your eyes it is still there.

Nothing,

not even candle flame,

can be as sweet as this.