"You can't fake this. Only imitate this." Young Love is blasting through my headphones. I'm wearing black lounge pants and an expressionless expression. It's late. The room feels heavy, I feel light, and the lingering question "why do all good things come to an end?" feels like it's appearing again.
Last night, la maison had a goodbye dinner. Potluck. The enchiladas cleared my sinuses for a moment's relief of my cold. There was wine. Lots and lots of red wine. And white. At least 15 bottles were empty halfway through the evening. I didn't drink and my teeth didn't turn blue. Paula made a slideshow. It was filled with unsuiting song selections and memoriable pictures of the semester's random happenings and key events. The slideshow made me realize: "it's going to come to a close, it's time to move on again." They're decent people. The people of la maison. Even the ones who've driven me to annoyance at times. Jessica smiled and walked pass me during mingling time - she doesn't want me. Tipsy girls put their arms around me and their faces got closer and closer as the room revolved around and around and around for them.
When I got back to my room, I sat on my bed. Uh oh. It was thinking time again. I turned to look at my desk. My very messy desk at moment. Well, most of the time. That's where Lucas sat the night I didn't fall in love. I haven't heard from him in a week. My time is almost up and I wondered if I'd see him again. I felt okay.
Sleep, sleep, slee- David and Sam came back from the club. Drunk. The usual. They're like an embarrassing clumsy - and stress clumsy - drunk pair. Love. That night proved that they really do just sleep sometimes.
The this morning, I got up early. It was raining. I'm back from the store. The sun shines. I checked my e-mail in the study room. Lucas e-mailed me. This made everything worse. He keeps his word. I'm not used to people doing this for me. People don't apologize to me for not seeing me in a couple of days. People don't make me promises to see me early next week. Lucas is special. He's a good one. He's the first person I'll have to thank the next time I fall in love. Because the next time will be for real. He taught me never to settle again. I hope I haven't spoken too soon. Regardless, I'll miss him.
I'll miss my baker. I'll miss jumping over the turnstills in la metro. I'll miss my balcony. I'll miss Paris in the wintertime, springtime, and its non-chalant attitude toward being on time. I'll miss Place D'italie. I'll miss watching people hurdle themselves onto the RER. I'll miss being stared at for looking like a mix-breed gyspy. I'll miss Harvir and his unknowingly funny statements and desire to be James Morisson's number one look-alike. I'll miss the macroons and the tarte fraise. I'll miss being able to see la Tour Eiffel or l'Arc de Triomphe on any given day of the week. I'll miss the café machiato from the coffee machine in the gallery of la maison. I'll miss la maison. I'll miss Linda and her odd words. I'll miss having no idea what people are saying when they speak too quickly and scream at me randomly in anger. I'll miss being able to smoke without thinking of my blackening lungs. I'll miss having to smoke in the bathroom to hide the fact I smoke from my roommate. I'll miss my roommate David. I'll miss cheap Bordeaux wine that tastes like the night. I'll miss Pizza Novena, Café Beaubourg, and the office of Robert Norman. I'll miss Jean-Manuel and his charming French ways. I'll miss those tiny pink facial tissues and the embarrassment they brought me when I have to pull them out in public. I'll miss the beautiful faces. I'll miss half-Nutella, half-hummus baguette nights. I'll miss having the freedom to do as I please. I'll miss going to school for myself and living for myself. I'll miss the French lifestyle. I'll miss you, Paris. Je t'aime, Paris. xx
