Grey outdoor limbo and there's a deadness setting in, a thousand hugs last night and they were only enough to stir my repressed appetite.
Running into Karen at breakfast with my uncle this morning, along with the cuddles from my nieces serving as resounding slaps admonishing me for turning my back again.
After the party I crept into David's bed, the frost still hard on the roof of my soon-to-be-ex car, contrasting heartachingly with the steaming warmth from his pillow.
Sliding in beside him one last time, fully clothed and reeking with party smells, burying myself in that space between his cheek and shoulder, I was surprised at the flood of tears.
I was apologizing a million times, apologizing for leaving, apologizing for abandoning him, apologizing for things I didn't even understand as they tumbled haltingly from my mouth.
And Bruno and Eric and Marc and Cfoo and and and...
...and Princess... and Steven... and Cf and oh so many hugs I didn't expect to need so desperately.
Even a surprise guest appearance from Mr. Pyke and the lovely lady Death who'd driven the hours from Toronto.
I am sure that once I have emptied the contents of my tear-ducts, spending Sunday afternoon alone in my appartment dans le dix-huitieme, I will glance out at the flower pots spotting the shining stone walls of the cour, and I will begin to remember why I ever left, beyond the selfish need to do something less ordinary.
Right now, though, my valises are packed and heavy with maple syrup and gifts and shining things, and I am drowning in this chair trying to forget the next hours until my ass is on a plane and the flat fa�ades of this city have sunk behind me.
I am afraid to call him and say goodbye...