The Do(o)me

It was the montmartre. The lure of a fellow Paris worshipper who walked the streets and breathed the air which Van Gogh did. I swiped, despite the apparent lack of effort made to interest someone in the profile.

Chats, a call and a video call. And a face decade older and hair having paid significant tribute to each one of those years.

The compliments flowed with need to impose that this was meant to be.

A chance spare evening, a coffee drive, and a pick up. The narcissism needing all the space in the luxury sedan.

Reaching for a hand, the cringe, the slobbering kisses on the arms, further cringe. The gentle shrug for personal space and a subtle hint to let go.

The need to show off the “best place in the city” and the needles flex for entry and access to a restaurant with a view that I thought redeemed all the clammy overtures.

A kiss! A grind! A push away and a firm no! But hey, she doesn’t know what she wants. Stale breath and unwarranted, unabated advances.

Distance established by a table. But alas, angles and excuses to dance. Alarm, needing to leave, an unignorable urgency!

A recommendation to take a cab and a final sigh of relief in the confines of a tiny container with a strange man!