Dear Nazareth
Paris is beautiful this week.
Ian bought cheese today and argued with the man at the counter for seven minutes about the different stages of Comte cheese.
It was a proud moment for me.
I’m sitting at the kitchen counter writing this. I still blush when I think of what you had me do on it. How you watched…
You know.
I wonder where you are right now. What city. What hour. Whether it's dark there too or whether you're somewhere the sun is still up, doing something I'll never know about, being someone I'll never fully see.
I wonder if you think about me the way I think about you—constantly, involuntarily, like breathing. Or whether the work switches something off in you and I become a thing you carry quietly in a pocket somewhere and don't take out until it's over.
I hope it's the second one. I hope you're not thinking about me at all.
I hope you're focused and cold and completely unreachable because that's what keeps you alive, and alive is the only thing I need you to be right now.
Come back.