Nocturne

I keep picturing myself tumbling down a rabbit hole but Paris doesn't look anything like Wonderland, even after too many Vodka Gimlets and a mild jet lag. Henry told me I looked pale when he picked me up, it must be the understatement of the century.

He lives with his sister, just before Christmas they moved to a quiet street in Saint-Germain-des-Prés to be closer to Sorbonne. Not that any of them go there. He disappears in the morning, calls me at lunch and comes back stoned around 6 in the afternoon. He talks to me about Riccardo Tisci, naked men at the Musée d'Orsay and about Los Angeles, but never us.

I'm writing this on his laptop, in his bed, in the dark. He's in the shower, the sound of the falling water reminds me of something but I can't remember what it is.