Two people sitting across from each other at a table in the french bar where I sometimes take my breakfast. It’s noon and they both have been crying. Their conversation is visibly intense but the tone is hushed. That, and the swing jazz guitar leaping from the speakers make eavesdropping difficult. But this is much clear: They are a couple and they are breaking up. These things happen. Every now and then I can hear the words they’re using and I scribble down every one.
I quite like these two, it turns out. So I filled my little quiver with the shards of their barely audible break-up. And now, like a person on the road distributing flyers, I pass them on to you to with as you will.