In which our hero finds she has been breathing the wrong air

Lydia dreams of being a housewife and carrying Paris in her veins. The way Paris seems to sink into the psyche and fill her heart with black-and-white romance. Grainy photos and uncertain colours line memory boxes stacked against the base of her skull. She believes and so she becomes a knee-length skirt and high-heeled shoes clicking over cobblestones. The whisper of a car three roads over at midnight. The shine on asphalt after rain. The misinterpreted wink from across the bar.

Lydia sighs into a pen and cups her palms around morphology that settles in elusively bold strokes on shards of used paper.

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