mo rning, a cold september

my 'petite chambre sous les toits' is cold; i put on socks. there is no body heat, no warm person next to me, to rub up against under the sheets, or kiss each others’ numbed noses & fingertips. i turn on both elements on my hot plate: one to boil water for coffee, one to warm my hands. the sun rises. its spindly rose fingers pry over the rooftops and break through the clouds, warming up to the light, becoming golden. the rooftops absorb the glow and the terra cotta chimney-pots cast shadows in the courtyards and onto the street, which is also waking up. i am not lonely for i have nothing to be alone from anymore; this is a choice, my choice; i am empowered, i am independent, i am –

it is morning & the old chef is preparing the daily specials in the kitchen in the back. he comes out to the café bar with a gutted fish - the head & tail remaining on the clean skeleton - & holds it up behind barista's head as he prepares my café au lait. i give his childish surprise away with my quiet laugh.