— Eric, you need to get school.
Books in hand, door slammed, feet down steps, angle of toast hanging
8:48, late. Alley to Riverside. Garbage. Like mountains. Can’t see.
— Ma tête me fait mal.
— Non, j’ai pas de faim. Impossible de manger avec ce mal de tête.
— We don’t speak French, Eric. Why are you speaking French?
— Laisse moi tranquil, maman.
–Someone call Judy.
— I don’t care if she is working. This is her nephew.
Seeking couscous, i become aware of being interpellated. It’s Eric. He
— Deux sandwiches falafel s’il vous plaît.
He is a stream of Italian the next day at the Gare du Nord.
— You’ll miss your train.
I push him on. He is still talking as the train leaves.