The Poetry of Parking Garages

Or parkades, as they say

The parking garage is an unlikely setting for romance, a concrete labyrinth where echoes and shadows dance. Yet, here I stand, beside your car, as you expound on Tremblay beneath the harsh fluorescent glow. "Une p’tite frite, une p’tite frite… deux toasts beurrées, deux toasts beurrées," you quote, and I laugh.

The air between us vibrates with potential, a tension that French describes as le frisson; that shiver of anticipation before something happens, or doesn’t. We linger in this suspended moment, teetering on the brink of a decision.

You lean in, and I think about how this stark setting, with its oil stains and echoes, has transformed into a poem. But then your phone buzzes, shattering the spell. You step back, mumbling about a meeting, leaving me alone with the echoes.

Later, I’ll ponder whether we missed something, whether the almost-kiss held more beauty than the real thing might have. Sometimes, the space between is where the magic resides: the parking garage, the unspoken words, the love stories left unfinished.