Restart

Can I sleep at you place?, I asked her candidly a mere three weeks ago. Since, we grew closer again. I'll be in town on Wednesday, I message her a week later, if you don't mind my going to some business party, I'd love you to join. Quite the opposite, I'd love to see you, she responds.

We walk the dog swiftly and then drive to the party and park right in front of the nightclub, sort of Hollywood-like. No tickets are no problem and we get in without hassle. Free drinks, a buffet, casino-styled entertainment.

She's knocking the glasses of wine far faster then I can drink my water. Playing table football, dancing and laughing a lot before I lose her in a crowd. A bit tipsy, she's being chatted up by some local chap. Takes me a while to retake her and I decide it's better a time to go.

Speeding through the city, we only smile at each other once I stop. She hardly walks and I literally carry her home. She's hugging me, not letting go. Oh dear, I whisper. I have to go. Don't go, please, she's begging. Please, she keeps whispering. I'm going anyway.

I feel really sick, the message beeps before I get home. Speeding through the city the second time, I'm back at hers in ten minutes. Laying her down, I'm to go again, at least to the other room. Stay, stay with me, she mumbles.

I stay, making sure she's fine, trying not to jump to conclusions too quick. She's just got drunk, right? Right??!

I'm taking her for breakfast in the morning while she's amazed at herself: I can't believe I let you sleep in my bed; I never... —

— You're lovely; lovely even when you're wasted — I cut her short. She blushes and I know we are where we left last year. It's all cool again.

Forlorn

Business meeting held in a small town lost somewhere between France and Switzerland. Intermittent Internet connection, regular meals and lots of tea, coffee and snacks. There may be fifty of us around, mostly older than me. Managers, directors, you name them. Just few seem to be out of place as I am, others seem to love it. Hardly anyone wears a wedding ring, I noticed shortly and then just kept starring at people's fingers, obsessed, mesmerised.

Bonjour, monsieur. Bonsoir, monsieur. S'il vous plaît, monsieur.

They walk by and they nod nonchalantly and their suits seem to make them into a sort of weird mannequins they originally strived to be. Now they are. Flicking through their iPads, checking their Blackberries, playing buzzword bingo in a business lingo.

What kind of life is this? I could not see them walking around the lake or take photos of this sleepy spa town. And I'm stuck with them, too, without a possibility of parole. The shuttle will only arrive in three days.

Au revoir, monsieur. Bon voyage, monsieur.

I'm slightly melancholic as I'm watching the scenery when being driven to the airport. I'm glad when we take off. God forbid I'd ever become one of them.

Getting better

Sitting in the corner, watching the crowd. Friends, coworkers and a handful of girls I got to know slightly better. I'm watching them calmly, all those characters who have been shaping my life since I moved here four years ago.

— I'm feeling honoured being invited, — one of my colleagues tells me few minutes later. — I really am.

It's surprising but touching to hear and I'm glad they're having fun. They're blending together, many of them having never met each other before. I divide my time and speak to everybody, introducing folks when necessary. It's smooth.

— Can I sleep at your place? — It's hard to believe I'm asking this just a couple of weeks after I decided not to be visiting her anymore and kept refusing her invitations.

— Rather not. — She's firm and I know I should not argue. A kiss on the cheek and she's gone.

Still, somehow I feel much better than two weeks ago.