Six Francs Seventy-five

Each night we bought red wine from a small supermarket Not too far from the Seine, where an overweight deaf teller Smiled whenever we walked in. At the counter he read our lips As we bought the cheapest wine we could find – never any change As each time we paid, we paid the exact amount in coins you Counted, one by one, into his open palm: six francs seventy-five.

Late in the evening you’d count up another six seventy-five And we’d walk through the narrow streets back to the supermarket – Fumbling through rich Parisians on their way to dinner; and you, Who loved the city for our anonymity, became fond of the young teller Who seemed alone and estranged and liked us too for the change We brought to his long nights, when he read our hearts and lips.

Remember, when we figured out what he asked behind his mute lips, ‘Why come twice, why not save yourselves the walk and buy four or five Bottles in the early evening?’ We laughed, as nothing would change The way we bought or the walks we took, hand in hand, to the supermarket. The following evening, as we paid, we looked into the eyes of the deaf teller And said, ‘It’s our habit’ and left it at that; and he smiled, more so at you.

From that night on – every night, this game with him and you; He’d lift his finger and wait for the silent words to form on our lips And we’d say, ‘It’s our habit’; and he’d laugh – the deaf teller – As we played our game, and all we needed was six francs seventy-five On those evenings near the banks of the Seine, in that small supermarket, Always paying the exact amount, never receiving any change.

Then you left and went away, and so heartfelt was the change – Each night I cried, and it’s safe to say that he too sorely missed you. In the evenings I still walked the narrow streets to the supermarket – Remembering our walks in expensive coats, the jokes and your pale lips, The way you kept the coins in a velvet pouch – the six seventy-five That you’d always count into the soft, open palm of the deaf teller.

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