Arrived at the Hotel Napoleon.
Sonya unpacks; the concierge
pale looking unsmiling, showed
us our room. I look out the window
on to the Parisian street below.
Sonya begins to sing an aria;
she always sings an aria when
she is happy, usually a Mozart.
I have unpacked already: one
armful into a drawer. She sorts
each item into an appropriate drawer.
I move from the window and lie
on the bed, trying it out for later.
She moves with slow deliberation,
from suitcase to drawer, each item
placed into the drawer as if they
were babies into a crib. She has
a lovely figure. The aria stops.
She turns and looks at me:
Pas encore de sexe, she says
in her neat French. Mange d'abord,
I reply, eyeing her her fine features,
her soft ******* and o so much more.
Jul 20, 2017
Jul 20, 2017 at 1:02 PM UTC
Arrived at the Hotel Napoleon.
Sonya unpacks; the concierge
pale looking unsmiling, showed
us our room. I look out the window
on to the Parisian street below.
Sonya begins to sing an aria;
she always sings an aria when
she is happy, usually a Mozart.
I have unpacked already: one
armful into a drawer. She sorts
each item into an appropriate drawer.
I move from the window and lie
on the bed, trying it out for later.
She moves with slow deliberation,
from suitcase to drawer, each item
placed into the drawer as if they
were babies into a crib. She has
a lovely figure. The aria stops.
She turns and looks at me:
Pas encore de sexe, she says
in her neat French. Mange d'abord,
I reply, eyeing her her fine features,
her soft ******* and o so much more.
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