Rue Rambuteau by Karl Powell

It's night time at Rue Rambuteau. Almost two in the morning. I'm sitting outside Cafe Au Pere Tranquille once again. Drinking wine once again. God, I could murder a cigar. It's such a beautiful night. All is quiet but things are happening. The clicking wheels of a suitcase are dragged across the Forum des Halles. I just love the how the Latin Quarter can sleep with one eye open. Two Senagalese women share a joke as they walk home. They use long, heavy footsteps, tired almost aching. Jazz pipes out of a bar. An old man passing by bums a cigarette from the table in front of me. Shadows move, black and white hold hands and kiss in the melange of yellow doorlights and the dark. Giant street lamps sift soft creams of buttered light onto the pavement, and a small dog with a black sock in his mouth trots down the street. Paris has left me breathless. Only one other has ever done this to me, and she is far away now. I look up into the thick violet of the night sky. A star shines high above this part of town, high above the skylights and sleeping windows and I smile. Shine on, buddy, and thanks for letting me see this. Bonne Nuit.