October 12, 2021

paté

The woman behind the counter at the pet store tells us our aging cat
needs something softer to eat. “Paté” she says, and for a moment, I’ve traveled
to one of those cafés along the Seine, an officious waiter placing a tiny espresso
at the center of a round silver table that winter I turned 30, when Paris was so cold,
it felt like rejection. I remember the loop of ceramic pinched between
my thumb and forefinger, and the way it seemed as if everything I’d known
was floating miles away in the middle of the Atlantic, and how the coffee was so bitter
it was almost sweet. I spent hours in those cafés, drinking cup after cup as if something
was waiting for me at the bottom - love, maybe, or at the very least, a sense of direction.
”Paté,” the store clerk repeats, and I grab can after can after can.