"Et pour les amoureux.." Says Stephan as he rings up our drinks at the register. Harry smiles nervously as I'm a little slow to pick up the French, like always.
The bad news: Scratchy the squirrel died night before last when the little heater in his night-time box inexplicably ceased to work. The following day, his owner and my English student, broke three fingers, one on one hand and two on the other, at his construction job while building a wall. The result: a teary eyed student struggling through the past tense for one painfully awkward hour on a rainy Dijonaise evening.
While recovering with a glass of wine with Harry in the aftermath, we talked about music and where it stops being music and starts to be noise- and art, and when it starts to be art and stops being stuff. (Any art student like myself or music student like Harry can answer "never" or "always" to the above and can easily spend an evening arguing about why either, neither, or both are dumb answers)
After words, in the street, I rubbed Harry's arm. He joked about some people being inefficient on bikes as they passed, seeing as there was only one on each and we'd recently become experts at piling on three. We shared a laugh. Then I asked if we could faire la bise. With a smile I added that it was "platonic enough."
So faire la bise we did, and, like usual, as my lips brushed against his left cheek my heart fluttered into space, and when I kissed his right it was all ready lost somewhere beyond Europa. He had touched my arm lightly. It was more poignant and more electric than all the kisses I've had in France to date. Then I dragged my sorry self up my formidable spiral stairs like I do every single night, wondering about love, about sex, the calories in a glass of wine, space travel, etc.
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