I had met her outside of the Centre Pompidou at one of those outdoor cafes with the plastic type of chair, rather than the bamboo type.  She was Spanish, which perhaps helped her to forgive my execrable French, so awful that I couldn’t tell what was wrong with hers.

“You look like you could be Irish,” she said.  “You should say you are Irish.”  When I asked her why, she curled the side of her mouth in an expression for which her face did not look designed.  Later I was to meet a different petite woman at a cafe who filled her mouth with chaw while we spoke.  It was a similar effect.

I told her at least half of the country did not like the president.

“It goes beyond that now,” she said.  “Anyway,” she said.  “Do you want to know what the world thinks about nine eleven?”

“Sure.”

“That sooner or later you were going to get fucked in the ass.  Excuse me.  And then you were fucked in the ass.”

I must have made a similar expression to hers.  “We’ve done a lot of good in the world,” I said.

“Sure,” she said.  “I’m sorry,” she said.  “Maybe you knew people?”

I didn’t though, and I told her I didn’t.  She told me about a bar, and at the bar she told me about a party.  But then she engaged in a long Spanish conversation on her telephone and I left to catch the Metro.

Photo on 2-22-13 at 11.26 AM #2

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