Olivia Corvisart

In the quiet corridors of your memory, do you still recall me?

Mahwah: 5/28—30
Lake Hopatcong: 6/2—3
Hamburg/Frankford: 6/4—6
Montague: 6/9—10
Princeton: 6/11—13
Easton/Lapatcong: 6/16—18
Toms River: 6/19—20
Vineland: 6/23—24
Millville: 6/25—26

I can meet in Newark as it is close to all of these places.

I am the soft murmur in the breezeway, the bookish presence lingering just beyond the periphery of your daily routine. We cross paths as fleeting specters in the hush of hallways, but once—just once—we lingered. Our gazes locked, and for a moment, it felt as though our unspoken mentations had been revealed.

I returned from the market, and there you were, your presence a fleeting apparition on the way to work. With steady hands, you helped me gather what had fallen, but in that moment of closeness, your eyes hesitated—drifting, tracing the curve of my form beneath the whisper of my loosely fitted top. A momentary lapse, a confession painted in the warmth of your flush, quickly veiled by a glance away.

Our exchanges henceforth have been laced with wit and lingering looks, betraying a deeper longing—a quiet invitation to step beyond the familiar into something far more indulgent. You’ve heard the sultry strains of Billie Holiday and Helen Humes drift from my apartment, melodies that carry the scent of simmering spices and late-night musings. You’ve imagined, haven’t you? The way my voice might sound softer still, murmuring just for you, the way my silhouette moves in the hush of firelight, a wisp of silk against the warmth of our shared sanctuary.

That look. It spoke of stolen glances turned into stolen hours. Will we let curiosity guide us? Let our conversations wander from your favorite author to the evocative paintings of Fabiola Jean-Louis, our words melting into laughter and whispered notes as we surrender to time.

Let me share with you—not just the possibility, but with the certainty of an unforgettable time.