The first 2 mornings after, as I stepped out to warm up in the sun
at the front door, I reflexively expected Christophe (our friend) whom I often
met as he stepped out to do the same thing.
Two frileux (chilled
white people in cardigans and linen scarves) seeking the African sun.
Instead I met his closed door, the plaster felled by his would-be
rescuers, the psychosomatic smell of his unwashed blood in my Parkinson’s-diminished
nose.
