The Pairing

The first six months after Theo left me, I lived on sex, croissants, and a volume of Rilke’s collected poems from Thierry’s bookshelf.

I sat up at night and drew circles around the lines that most made me think of Theo, copied down the best ones until they stitched together a new verse. Dream in the eyes, the brow as if in touch with something far away. And, Was it not summer, was it not sun—all that heat from you, that measureless radiant warmth? And, Alone: What shall I do with my mouth?

Well. Sex and croissants, that’s what.

It was Maxine who, at the end of a long evening that could have been a first date if she hadn’t seen right through me, went scouring my notebook for a recipe and found the page with the Rilke. She asked, “How long have you loved them?” And I said, “Almost my whole life.” And she said, “Putain de merde,” and opened her cigarette case.