night of the nightless night

It is midsummer weekend. The citizens of the north have abandoned the hot tar-roads of the city and moved towards the waters, bonfires and forests. Shops are closed, newspapers don’t publish new news and public transport has ceased to exist.

There is magic in the air. Now it is the time when maidens collect seven flowers to put under their pillow to dream about their future fiancée, count the cuckooing of a cuckoo bird and swim naked in the lake. And the sun watched over the festivities.

There was no magic in the air in Paris. I left work past midnight but the dark streets of the city were still filled with people coming out and going in. It was warm. The lights of the Eiffel tower were reflected from the ripples of the Seine. But there was no summer magic in the air.

I came home. My street was quiet except for the lonely homeless, looking for an empty corridor or an unlocked door. I climbed upstairs and opened the door. There was a light breeze coming through the open window and a distant sound of music. The night was calm and dark. The sun had gone to bed long before me.

There was no magic in the Parisian night. I wondered if I should put on a left sock, the wrong way round before going to bed. Just in case. Just in case. I didn’t. There was no summer magic in the dark night.