I awoke this morning to a text message from Jamal. If there is anything more divine than waking up to, “Macarons: procured!” I’ve yet to experience it. So yes, Jamal is in Paris and I’m split somewhere in the neighborhood of 80/20 when it comes to my happiness/jealousy ratio. I talked to him this morning and he’s having the best time; he bought cheap bleu cheese from our local fromagerie on Rue des Abbesses, stopped in for a coffee break and stood at the bar with the other old French men while drinking his café. He went to our favorite street near the Eiffel Tower, bought himself new mustard at Maille. Last night in French class, my teacher told me I was “more advanced” than the class level, so that’s basically the same thing as being in Paris, right? Right.
I’ve been writing up a storm these past two weeks. It’s one line at a time (bird by bird) usually (most recently: “But that’s it. You don’t know they’re bad until the end.”), but on Sunday as the afternoon light faded, it was 3 whole hand-written pages on my sofa, the scratch of my pen against the paper the only sound in the room.
It’s been a good two weeks sans fiancé, honestly. As good as can be expected. I vacuumed a lot. Ate Halloween oreos before dinner if I felt like it. He’s in Paris until late tomorrow afternoon, and while I’m really, truly thrilled he’s there, enjoying our city and falling in love with it on his own, I’m ready for him to come home.
With macarons, naturellement.