First day off in a long time, strange considering I've been a paid slacker for nearly two months now.
I leave for Limoges tomorrow. All my blouses laid out on the bed, the train tickets tucked away, notes on the project still in digital form and me without a printer.
I should really be reading one of the eight billion internal projects they've given me to look at, or continuing notes on Sendmail and TLS or anything, really... Answering heartfelt e-mail that is beginning to drown between the reams of work-related stuff.
Instead I'm staring at the phone that held his voice not moments ago and I can't move for fear of losing the echoes.
There are strawberry stains on my teeth, blisters on my feet from rollerblading, a million sentences in my head that I keep meaning to write down for a rainy day, wonderful things people say sometimes, great gifts that I want to etch somewhere into memory for every time my strength falters, or my resolve begins to shake.
"Ca t'arrives des fois de t'ennuyer?"
"Des fois je pense que tu es un ange et que tu cherches � le cacher du monde..."
"Il n'y a qu'une seule personne qui puisse me faire bouger de chez moi
ce soir et c'est toi!"
"On est tous �nivr�s par ton charme!"
"I miss you."
...but already the words are sounding too flowered, too coloured, too taken out of context somehow.
Crepes last night at Anna Maria's after a rollerblading frenzy at the Main Jaune since the outdoor version was rained out, speed and madness and my blades finally feeling at moment here or there as extensions of my feet, Anna Maria's exuberance at mastering the technique I showed her and her dizzying improvement at taking turns and feeling comfortable on skates.
Photos from the party have been uploaded to my machine and are now up, my cherry red sunburn and everyone's smiles, I'll have at putting them up, slowly...
Looking at David's band photos, I remember the rooftop they were taken on and the hot summer nights spent seeking the breeze there, hard moments before I left, remembering the park behind a few others and how dearly I miss vegetation.
I'm sure there'll be some in Limoges...
Gods, I miss him so much it hurts. Achingly, when my fingers tremble at the edge of some bar, everyone has begun to understand not to ask questions.
"She's thinking about David."
I want to come home.