"Do you have the time?" he asked.
I did and I did not.
"Sorry, I do not," I said, giving him the safe half of the story. "I was looking for the Chantilly."
"I know this place," he said. "My parent's made their wedding bed there." I was taken with his strange manner of speech and the way he worried a glass bead in his hand. His eyes were brown.
Fourteen miles away, my husband was boarding the Blue Train towards home.
"I will walk you there," he said, "to the Chantilly." He smiled and softness spilled over his face despite his angular cheek bones.
I looked to the west. Red slippers sparkled upon my feet. I kissed him once on the lips and stepped into the east.
* * *