Thursday, May 4

Un Delicé!

The window in the kitchen was triangular with only two sides and jutted outwards. On its sill were a cafetière and various half-empty pots of spices and dried herbs. The kitchen was still, the flat empty of its other residents when Rebecca emerged from the shower, toweling her hair. Sanne cooked. I stood around, topping up wine glasses and feeling useless. Rebecca’s room was tidied, but littered with books, opened up, face down.
After not writing for so long, it is hard to sit down and do it all over again. The act becomes a confrontation of fear.
We sat down and ate. The food went down well and quickly. All of us had seconds. Afterwards we shared Swiss and German chocolate and drank red wine. Sanne did not drink any more than two glasses, so Rebecca and I took the rest of the two bottles I had brought. We sat down on the front step and smoked. It was cool and she was the slowest smoker in the universe. When one doesn’t smoke, I suppose they savour what cigarettes they can, turning them into meditative ceremonies.
I thought a lot about writing. Many evenings I wished to do it but could not, through either exhaustion, drunkenness or lack of idea. For a change, tonight I thought I would abstain from beer when I got home. I would wait the evening out sober and maybe later I would feel like writing. I cleaned the kitchen. I prepared a meal that a friend had bought the ingredients for me. The ingredients – in exact amount – were within half a cereal box, in a takeaway chicken paper-bag. The ingredients were listed on a scrap of paper with—‘Un delicé!’ written at the top. Whenever she spoke French I told her—‘I could listen to you speak French all day.’ Diary permitting: a day of listening to her speak French.
The time flew. I don’t know where the time went but we were up till two talking, all of us sharing things. Sanne said that she loved such evenings – ‘Moments’ she called them – and I was glad to be a part of it. The other flatmates never came home. At half-two I said that I should leave. We hugged each other. I was sleepy when I came home, but I was happy.
Just writing again is the pleasure, the first step, the toe in the water. I want to be back where I was. I am so fearful when I write these days, but I will get better.

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