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Au Revoir, Petites Rébellions

There is no such thing as a free ride, unless the ride in question is on the Paris Métropolitain.

But even then…

Sweltering, you descend underground into Laumière, shunted to and fro amidst the late-afternoon chaos. You are tethered to your petite amie by palms loosened with sweat – or loosened with something psychological, an unconscious choice. The boiling sea of heaving, sweating bodies pulsates and shifts around you, never casting the same shadow twice. Everyone has somewhere to be and nobody can spare a second of the time it takes to get there.

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Auld Rebel

Warning: this piece contains strong language

My itchy feet did not stop when I returned home from the Far East and met the man who would become my husband in less than six months. They were soothed. They were softened. They were worn, day in, day out, for many years. 

Worn, trodden upon, used … my feet were trampled over many times but still they plodded on. They say we hit a treadmill at certain times of life and maybe that’s where my feet found themselves for thirty plus years. 

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