moi, émoi

In Paris Jennie and I summoned up our past with champagne and navettes, which while lacking the coquettish religiosity of cookies en coquille at least connote a textual shuttling back and forth. Alexandre played us a sonata; later, we clamored over his little English phrases. Romain called to say we could never go home again; the apartment en bas burned. Manon gossips that it was the landlord's drunk ex-wife, but Romain diplomatically assures me that on ne sait pas encore. I came back to collect my things to discover the lock blocked with an invisible sliver of glass. My key did no more good than when I repetitively enter the clé for the wireless internet. Later Romain, after admitting himself keyless and for once at my newly-keyed mercy, keyed up the exchange by mocking my atonal accent: Too-ahh-un-klay? Shut the fuck up.

Unsurprisingly I feel much more intimate with my roommates since relationships turned textual. Even Romain resorts to text message slang when having to tell me for the fifth time that he’s not there to let me in. Marwan announced on my wall, “I am your real/cyber friend right now!”, and Manon scrawled on a pink post-it, “QUI A MANGE MA MANDARINE???”, under which was written, “C’était moi, ça te derange?” and over which was written “OUI!!!” A new note was then posted, reading, “Si tu veux on peut partager les tampons, serviettes de bain…” followed by a vulgar view of an animal with the appellation “Romain"...for a little while our refrigerator was like a virtual Facebook.