"Salut Gila je suis un copain � S�b, on est cens� de se retrouver � la Gare de L'Est pour aller � la teuf de Crystale..."
Right. So I'm meeting some random guy named Pascal somewhere in the bowels of the train station.
Apparently we've met. Apparently I'm that crazy blonde canadian chick.
Good thing for impressions though, seein' as without his rollerblades chances are I wouldn't recognize "Pascal, friend of S�b" if'n he were just standin' there wearin' the proverbial safety pin in his jacket (see: old BBS-GT days and how we recognized each other at the bar).
There isn't much else. The bruise on my sternum is all but dissipated. When boy arrives, the ensuing soreness will be due to an entirely other sort of muscle strain.
Boy arriving. Boy arriving. There is nothing but anticipation in my heart right now. A little leftover anxiety, the usual "I hope everything is perfect" sort of stupid-way-to-get-stressed-and-ruin-things but mostly...
...there is anticipation.
This weekend, was more of the same. Seeing my sister off to the airport, spending a few hours chatting over Mangoustan tea, leaning up against my brick-and-tile bar with my cousine Judith as she brought over her kitten for kittensitting, showing off the drunken-d�cor, and a brief pangs of anticipation in between chock-filled spaces.
Bouts of realizations and staring at corners where I will kiss this or that part of his face, coupled with desperate searching for ways to fill up the time, there is a certain melancholy to that, a certain self-doubt that creeps into every moment and makes the road just a touch treacherous, just a mite slippery.
Bu I have forty eight hours until the road I am climbing is lit by celestials so bright that the parisian sun will hide its wan face (the way it always does, d'ailleurs), and there is no difficulty in filling them.
Tonight, hurling myself into a country cottage out in Faremoutiers-Pommeuse somewheres and partying with the intent to just... party. Forget a little, laugh a lot, drink more and maybe smoke something green.
Feed the cat on the way to the gare, get cuddles enough to cushion the bite of the slight jitterinness at the fact that there will be a hundred unfamiliar faces there, and that I am obliging myself to go simply to remind myself that I can do these things.
Feed the cat and grab a sleeping bag and by the time I wake up Tuesday afternoon, return home, and then wake-up again after a proper bath and nap...
It'll be time to dig out my silk stockings, race to the Prefecture for my Carte de S�jour, and then be at the airport at 13h pile, with my heart imloding in my chest.
I'm not a habitual subscriber to busywork, and yet somehow...
When the moments in between this race or that rush are filled with the softness of that spot where his chin meets his strong neck, or my fingers disappearing in the down on his chest or... so many thousand other brushings of bodyparts...
Then time travels just fast enough to not be entirely wasted waiting for tomorrow, and at the same, passes quickly enough for Wednesday to be a light so bright that the whole tunnel is shining.
Bonne fin d'ann�e.