She wondered, was he walking the streets of some distant city, smelling the springtime air filled with the scent of flower blossoms and melting dogshit in the soft April rain?
Sleeping in a garret, drinking espresso in little cups as the red light district goes to sleep, the junkies and whores and moslems all jostling together as they make their way into the dawning day, some to sleep, others to pray?
Or holed up in some Paris flophouse, sleeping off the jet lag and the absinthe, waiting for the door to burst off it's hinges, busted in by the cops after a three day slog through 10 countries, ducking the cameras and sweating out the border crossings, complete with dogs and guns and scowling officials sniffing for that scent of fear and forgery?
She never did find out he was running a punch press outside Akron, punching a clock with a new face and wishing he still had the money.
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