An evening out in a French commune,
worn-out flowers and cigarette butts are scattered along the street.
A couple is dancing while cafe-goers talk and drink.
I can’t quite remember how this painting fell into my life.
I assume that it came with the room
abandoned by the previous tenant and now forever bound to me.
The woman dancing’s hair is red, she wears a massive scarlet hat.
I’m almost jealous
the seams of her ivory dress complement it.
Her smile is soft and her stance is untroubled.
On the other hand, her partner is but a mystery.
His yellow hat conceals his eyes, his clothes dark and plain
yet, he holds her so lovingly,
so close, and with care.
She seems to define him
although, her eyes fail to meet his.
To me, he is nothing but a blank canvas
and some days I’ll stare just enough to picture myself in that yellow hat,
except my eyes will not be hidden
and hers will meet mine.
I imagine us dancing with grace
as if we were alone, despite the many people around us.
I would hold her so lovingly,
so close, and with care.
We would dance to music we couldn’t hear,
but some days I’ll stare too long and realize that I never was a great dancer
and it isn’t really me in Bougival,
with her.
Published January 31, 2021
Written by Abigail Mirambel ~ Edited by Deeba Mehr ~ Graphics by Ian Jiang
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