A long day nearing its end is steeped in silence and dark.
Now a car rumbles past outside.
Now it’s gone.
Through an empty glass on my desk, the corner of an image appears, a postcard of a Toulouse-Lautrec painting that I love, a reclining woman wearing long black stockings, entitled, « Seule. »
Tonight, although I have no stockings, black or long or other, I’m her.