The heavy wool wintercoat that my sister lugged all the way here is too hot and too heavy for Paris' feeble winter, yet staring out at the cobbled street between the tendrils of the fur-lined hood while Anna Maria giggled at my "russian princess lost in Paris" look was worth the weight (pun intededed).
Racing home for lunch hour to see her and let her in dans le cas that her hand didn't fit into my mailbox to grab the spare keys (it did. how reassuring for my mail) and throw together an onion and crushed-zuchini tagliatelle lunch and polishing off a bottle of a surprisingly good 1999 Bordeaux betwixt the three of us, there was no room left in our bellies for mousses viennoises or coulommiers, but the content grins around my tiny table were an exercise in satiety.
"Anna this is Anna Maria, Anna... bon d'accord"
With a half hour trajectory time chez moi, I really should go home for lunch more often, invite the gang and save us all solid chunk of money and greasy overcooked food.
This morning on the radio, whilst picking crumpled corduroys from behind my bed because today "just isn't a dress-up day", Co� from Europe2 paused momentarily in his nearly-shocking prank phone call routine and rattled off a handful of news items with his unseen DJ lips serving as tickertape feeder.
In between spewing random numbers between zero and ten for the weather, and announcing gridlock everywhere again, there was an utterly lucid moment as he sped through
"and in some part of the city a homeless man succumbed to the cold and was found dead of hypothermia"
before going on to the latest plastic-among-the-stars morsel.
Pausing with my thumb on the flint wheel of the lighter, blue jasmine incense stick trembling only slightly in my left fist, I had the sudden image of how it feels
to feel the cold creeping past your skin and ever so stealthily stealing the bristling core from you degree by breath, falling consciously yet helplessly into the dream that is knowing that it'll all be over soon but not having a sliver of strength with which to even feel the urge to argue.
There were bare seconds between the dry schick of the lighter spitting flame onto the rounded incense tip, but the million spermatozoid thoughts followed me through settling the stick in the brazier, wandering down the hall into the bathroom, stripping, washing my tired curls...
Long after the DJ had forgotten if he'd read enough of the headlines on his list, I was still remembering that time in Lifeguarding class when I went down strapped to the spinal board and waited wonderingly to see if they'd find me first or if it would be the air, remembering that time we all hopped onto motorcycles in flimsy leather jackets to ride north through the night to see the northern lights, and the dimming fire left us more comatose than asleep.
But I'm still breathing.
My little sister is in my appartment right now, waiting to come help me with the groceries, stocking up on vegetarian ingredients.
I can't remember if this is the first time we've ever hung out. The look of surprise to her as I pointed out the things I'd prepared in the fridge in case she would like to try them, or motioned her to the towels, explained about the this or that, indicates that there's someone creative and intelligent and worthwhile dans ma famille -- and after so many years I am only now realizing
We don't even know les uns et les autres.
My intrusion document is done, shined, checked, and indexed, maybe I'll leave before 19heures today and go have a pillow fight at home.