The tryst between two, one French. She was tall but shorter than he.
In Melbourne they met, & drank.
She resented the cigarette ever present in his grasp.
Many times they made mention of their pasts, always talking never listening.
They lay together for a while,
Then they talked some more.
He, looking up at the sky, framed by the narrow city, smoked, drank.
She, on his lap, talked of home. Her Father.
And she talked of love, of desire, of heartbreak.
He listened, but could not relate. He nodded & frowned when it was prudent.
But he was oblivious to what she spoke.

The pair had met, somewhere; it is not relevant.
It was real to him, escape from life. She too, had been dead inside.
And she told him of it, working for just life. Not living. He related and it took his breath away.
But he made no mention, preferring to remain sparse in her mind.
The French girl, she was blonde and pretty.
He called her gorgeous & it made her smile.
There was happiness amongst the anger for a while.
And when she talked of love there was no melancholy, for she was young.
She dreamed of love & it was everything. And he had nothing because he was dead and did not care,
and he knew he would be really dead soon enough and that death is ultimate.
And that only by death can we appreciate life, so death is beautiful.
But awareness did not lessen the cut.