leavesdropping

I’ve developed deeply textured emotional attachments to every male figure in a position of power vis à vis me: the forlorn proviseur at my school whose square and sloppy bisous eschew decorum, the soft-spoken English teacher who wears chemises of clean white linen, my antique-featured roommate Romain, the arbiter of my unappetizing tastes. The other day, as I was cooking dinner, he leaned over my leeks and accused me of having fouiller dans sa chambre…I bristled, not unpleasantly, before remembering that I had, to recover my purloined chewing-gum. I blamed Liz, ma copine new-yorkaise, which he thought was hilarious.

I have the most senseless desires. I eat food that doesn’t taste like anything; I drink our Tuesday two-euro vin mousseux like water. Mornings I step out onto the balcony and can’t tell if it’s cold. The sun is so present, but I can’t tell in what capacity. I make useless resolutions daily. Don’t drink so much, don’t participate in drunk anglophone debates about which city has the world’s craziest drivers, go to the mountains. I went to the mountains. It was breathtaking, heartbreaking, but it didn’t last long enough. Now what? I’m going to visit Jamie at Cambridge, insha’Allah…it will be just like that time at Les Deux.