The walls were sweating.
Seriously, the heavy rock walls of the ex-wine caves of St-Sabin were slick with humidity.
It was hot. And packed. And filled with hundresd of posturing, arrogant children.
Not that that wasn't arrogant to say, either, but the atmosphere was so wrong, the music so bad, kids dressed to the nines in vynil and spiked collars all from the same three stores, all the same shirts, skirts, and waist-things.
Too many, too hot, too much smoke and the beer was fifty centimes but I barely managed to down a cup before it got sat on, stepped on, knocked or sloshed out of my hand.
This morning was the becoming-traditional after-gothing Mr. Pyke wake-up call, followed by de-make-up-ing, potato salad, and the annual "get monstre naked photo shoot".
We're not sure any of the photos came out but nevertheless I was stretched this way and that along the bed, even my watch removed, hands crossed, on my side, on my back, feet dangling, feet crossed, what-have-you.
When the sun hid behind the clouds we waited. I shivered.
Then princess ran off to the catacombs, I'm catching a train for Limoges in an hour.
I won't be here when she leaves.
I get back midnight Wednesday, have a singing lesson Thursday morning, lunch and manicure with Alexe who's in town from Montreal while I head down there, then time enough to pack, perhaps sleep, try to fit far too much wine into my pack, and have lunch with Jon in Amsterdam on my way across the ocean.
Saturday, I'll see the pirates with Steven.
Saturday night, after the cast party, after beers and talk and many things, I will cry into David's shoulder.
The bi-annual party is at my old place on Friday, May 24th.
If you're in Montreal and can make it, e-mail me for directions. Everyone's invited.