I saw Joan Of Arc on the subway last night. She got on at Chambers Street, carrying a big mountain backpack and a sleeping bag. Her hair was still in that same short pageboy, and her bangs were blowing in a breeze that came from Rouen almost six hundred years ago. She even had a fleur-de-lys embroidered on the pocket of her jeans. Her eyes were still that same incredible clear shade of blue that dispelled all doubt the moment you looked deeply into them.
She caught my eye for just a second when she boarded, then she looked around the rest of the car. But it didn't matter, I knew she recognized me. The ghost of a smile crossed her face and vanished, a smile so faint and so quick that only those who knew her well would have seen it at all. I knew she was thinking the same thing as me. Hello again old friend. I missed you too.
She got off at West Fourth Street, same as me, but she went to the south end while I walked north to Eighth Street. I know she looked over her shoulder at me as we went our separate ways. And I know I'll see her again, soon. I've missed you, cherie!
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