by Elodie Rose Barnes
I’d never been to the Dingo before, and so you took me by the arm. 3 a.m. at the Coupole was deadly, you said. Perhaps Nancy will be at the Dingo to liven things up. My drooping eyelids and numb feet – too much dancing – followed you down the boulevard, drifting from one pool of café light to the next, the voices and music from one mingling with the voices and music from the next until I could no longer tell which was which. At 3 a.m. in Paris, the party had no beginning and no end. Except, of course, at the Coupole.
Nancy was not at the Dingo. You bought us whisky cocktails and refused to dance before I even asked, and we sat, silent and invisible, on the edge of the pulsing haze of smoke. Bodies with faces that I didn’t know slipped in and out of focus. Whisky burned my throat. Jazz, syncopated and harsh, beat against the four walls of the bar, finding an escape route only when you opened the window behind us. Music flowed out, followed by smoke and the tang of sweat and alcohol, and some of the night flowed in to take its place. I breathed deep, welcoming the cooler air. I wondered where would be next on the paper trail of excitement and tried not to wish too hard for bed. In Paris, I reminded myself, the party never ended.
I wasn’t prepared for the hand that sidled through with the breeze, grasping in between us, filthy and pleading. Too shocked even to recoil, I watched as you pressed your glass into the cracked palm and an entire whisky cocktail withdrew into the darkness. Too much alcohol, not enough sleep? The faint, lingering stench of the river quays said not. Only later would I realize how many of those hands without faces the city held hidden. Stories without names, on the edge. Silent. Invisible.
Without a word, you swallowed what was left of my cocktail and stood. 4 a.m. at the Dingo was deadly, your look said. Perhaps Mina will be in Montmartre to liven things up. Let’s go up and see.
Elodie Rose Barnes is an author and photographer. She can usually be found in Paris, daydreaming her way back to the 1920s, while her words live in places such as Reflex Press, Tiny Molecules, and Ellipsis Zine. Current projects include a chapbook of poetry & photography, and a novel based on the life of modernist writer Djuna Barnes. She can be found online at http://elodierosebarnes.weebly.com and on Twitter @BarnesElodie.