avril 13, 2018
Capture d’écran 2018-01-17 à 07.12.08

I am sitting on the edge of my bed staring at the alarm clock as it incessantly blares.

I’m in a sad and sorry state as I didn’t sleep a wink – my neighbour was partying all night.

I stay in the shower for the longest time, as I lean my hands against the tiles and hang my head I let the water jets beat hard on my neck.

I inhale 3 cups of coffee and in one swift movement I’m standing.

I have an appointment with the marketing director of the T society. I accepted an interpreting assignment for the inauguration of the new subsidiary.

I already know the procedure, I know it like the back of my hand. I am to interpret the official ceremony and during the evening, all private conversations.

When I arrive at 44, rue Caulaincourt, I push on a bulky glass door and ascend a beautiful staircase. A man exits his office to greet me, he offers me his hand. I raise my head and our eyes meet. So tall.

The office lighting, the to and fro of crisp impeccable shirts, cups of coffee, documents and files, the rhythmical movement of the doors, phones ringing, infinite shelves, pens, voices….

Your voice, your hazel eyes, your three day growth, your beautifully sun kissed hands and your long fingers, they betray the fact you have recently returned from vacation.

I wonder if there is any trace of the pillow indent on my left check or if it’s gone.

I’ve completely lost my train of thought and any thread of our conversation yet I find myself nodding yes.

You explain the procedures, I want to know everything about you.

You show me the list of speeches, I want all the people in your office to vanish into thin air so we can ruminate about life over coffee and talk until sunrise.

You hand me a file that you’ve printed for me.

I remind myself that by the end of our meeting I will once again hold your hand in mine. (O the rules of politeness! Thank you for existing!)

You take my hand. An overwhelming, yet fleeting heat burns through my entire being.

I push the glass door, descend the beautiful staircase and inhale the fresh air. The intoxicating freshness of September engulfs my lungs. The sky’s an incredible blue.

I stroll along without doing up my coat. My hand still warm from yours. I cannot hide my smile, people in the street are watching me.

I endlessly repeat your name.

I take rue de la Bonne and pause for a moment to admire Paris from the top of the hill of Montmartre.

As I quickly descend the stairs, the sides of my coat flutter like wings.

I fly. I live. I love.

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