Qui sait combien de temps cela va durer

I'm tired, and not just from the overpriced long drinks at the airports and the sleepless hours across the darkness of the ocean. Not just from the tepid jet lag but from the phantom pains of Henry's absence, obstinately aching through every part of my body.

And then New York, it always seems like a fairytale filtered through a taxi window, the neon signs and the traces of rain on the sidewalks like splinters in my mind. The apartment smells of solitude and vapid champagne, mother must have been here recently, leaving the blinds opened and the balcony door inattentively unlocked.

I'm in her sofa with her Cartier de Lune watching afternoon shadows crawl silently across the floor, waiting for the sound of her keys in the lock. I imagine her like before, striking a pose in the doorway, a subtle smile on her Guerlain lips and her heels like rhythmic hail against the polished black marble. She used to be so happy.