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I bought a coat too sophisticated for my tastes; the sleeves are of an opulent amplitude. Manon marvels as I eat whole huge pears. I think I’m losing my voice (literally literally, in the lettered sense). Liz invites me to an assistants’ night out: salsa dancing at the Cuban bar. I didn’t even feel like thinking of a piquant pun on salsa/sauce/getting sauced. “Past my bedtime, but salsa it up for me!” “Will do, catch ya later gator.” I went to sleep for 14 hours.

BA me manque, but I’m doing my best to preserve the delicate détente he established with my roommates, a peculiar balance of alienation and amity. For la plupart of an epic phone conversation with H Face, Romain dangled some jewelry in front of my face.

Romain: C’est à toi?
Me: Non…
Romain: T’es sûr?
Me: Oui…
Romain: Tu ne l’as jamais vu?
Me: Non…
Romain: Euh…je l’ai trouvé par terre, du côté de mon lit.
Me: oOoOo
Romain: [blushing and changing the subject, as if such innuendo were not the express purpose of this exchange] Et Akbar, il est parti?

I have a new batch of terrible Tuesday brats, but Zakaria, ever the prophet, swooped down amongst them and warned in a whisper, “Elle comprend! Elle comprend!” They still talked shit, but they also flirted with me more. I switched to Lucky Strikes, which remind me of my friends out on the west coast, who quote Hefner lyrics on Facebook walls to remind themselves of each other...my coat floats through my thoughts with embarrassing buoyancy.