Four hours sleep and counting and I can't hear the swish-swish whisper of the ghosts in my head today. (it can't hurt when it doesn't have enough sleep to lean on)
Hugs and YAHTZEE! last night (yes, � this exciting parisian life, whadja do Saturday, Monday and Wednesday night, Gila? I played Yahtzee... And didn't even get a single one... But y'know what they say, unlucky with dice, lucky, with, uh, my shower head?) too-garlicky rosbif leftovers and my first B�CHE de No�l and teaching the little parisian the joy of head massages.
Dropping me off I saw the reflection of Mapie in his eyes and my heart went out to him.
Walking into a desktop filled with ICQ messages, shaking the too-intense gaze of some stranger on the m�tro and his twitchy-winking left eye from my head and diving in.
Yes, David, we're okay. I'm sorry I was so tightly clutching an edge I didn't know was there until it exploded and sliced both of us into fine, bleeding ribbons under pressure.
Yes, Arn�, you'll be okay, I'll worry and fret but I'm so painfully impressed that you confronted your own greatest fear and woke up at five in the morning to ICQ me about it.
And being the computer geek thou art, I can't wait to see the scintillating solutions you come up with to qualm your terrors and actually attempt some situation where you're not intentionally doomed to fail. (cuz it's not your fault then, right? Well it is now... My "aware" little parisien. Even if I may lose the closeness of our friendship.)
Princess' voice at two in the morning as I stumbled in, garlicky and tired and nowhere near hugged enough...
...this lack of physical contact is slowing eating at me...
...was a comfort.
I'm hoping Judith calls and asks me to keep her cat for the new year, I could use the cuddles.
If I honestly believed that my life would be here for a long, long time, that perfect litter-sized nook in my bathroom would have a kitten peering out from it every morning.
I should listen to my sister, and find a foster kitten agency like the one on Parc Avenue � Montr�al. Give him a good home for six months and not return so starved after the three hugs, two hair ruffles, eight bises (some people out here do four bises rather than two, talk about parisian something-or-otherness) and tickle fight which for some reason I felt the need to extract myself too-early from.
But the morning is quiet and cold, the pile of computer games on Eric's desk a faint glimmer of otherness in this sterile place.
The steam from my caramel tea is rushing up against my chin, urging me to synthesize.
Anna Maria just brought me a pain au chocolat. The vet says that her cat and his chronic intestinal troubles still has a chance.
Little things, little things.
I love you. And that is no little thing.