A gypsy boy writing
his name for me.

After class on Wednesday I wondered down rue de Rivoli and into BHV [bay-ash-vay], to sink my fingers into the colorful yarns for sale on the fourth floor, thinking.
Not yet. I will make a scarf but not yet.
On my way out the door, I noticed the price tags of the scarves and hats that were already made. It was tempting.
Not yet.
My naked ears reminded me how cold it was. We crossed the Seine and took shelter in one of the reading rooms in Shakespeare and Company. In an alcove near the old piano, two children sat on either side of a man reading Babar. I had forgotten what it was like to be read to like that. The girl sat, almost stood, on the edge of the bench with her hands pressed against the flat, red cushion. Her head was cocked in a strange, forgotten sort of way while her eyes wandered into that land open only ourselves.
I remember feeling like that.
I walked by them and settled in a corner  against stained cushions that made me feel ill. I tried to ignore them as I set about my homework.