Je vais bien, I think. I'm okay, Paris. I feel
a bit groggy, yes, from having slept about three
and a half hours every day for the last three
days because there aren't enough hours in a day
to get things done recently. Or that's how I'd
like to put it anyway -- ce n 'est pas ma faute,
tu vois? (I know how much you adore it when I
speak French in my silly accent) but I'm okay:
for the first time in a while, I'm okay about
being away from you. I'm okay, and you know I'm
not saying it to emphasise that I'm actually
not; you know I always make sure you don't need
to guess how I feel -- non: je vais bien! Because
I know I'm coming to see you in less than a week
now; because I know you're always there for me --
or in me -- through my busy and chill mornings,
and through my grossly-misunderstood sleepless
nights; because I know I'm doing everything I
can to make us work -- you, me, and London; because
when you're doing everything you can, there's
nothing left to do, or to control -- oh, j 'adore
this word here! Do I miss you? Like letters in
a book miss a pair of eyes. All right, maybe
those letters can live without a pair of eyes --
untouched, unread, uninterpreted, ununderstood
(like some loneliness), but, still: what a waste
(unlike loneliness), and I'm not about to waste
my existence without a fight. I'm not fighting,
though: I strut daintily in a vintage outfit
during the day (I've even got my own vintage
and designers corner opened in Wimbledon now,
where you can find your treasures and even sit
down by the shop window and read my printed Paris
memoirs -- check out @fromdiattic on instagram
for more) and I think deeply -- sometimes about
doing admin -- in the darkest hours of the night
because: que faire d'autre? All right. Maybe I miss you deeper
than that pretentious analogy (couldn't help
myself -- didn't want to), but there is so much
calm sneakily infused in me recently. Like
trust. Sneaky trust. Ah, might as well, especially
with the uncomfortable chaos of growth flying
around in the air for me to catch faster than
the spring's hay fever. Will it last? And besides,
is it calm or is it exhaustion? From missing
you too much, par exemple? Is it trust or is
it lack of time to dwell in doubts? Too many
questions, Dina. And why settle? Why settle indeed?
Only four weeks ago I declared I didn't miss
you; that I belonged with you; that there was
this achy feeling between my chest and my belly
button, and now I think I'm okay about not being
with you right now, right this second -- whoa,
whoa, whoa, whoa -- the minutes are still hard,
d'accord? But I'm okay. I guess I'm okay with the
hardship now. For now. I guess there isn't really
much to say about being okay, is there? Except
the list of contrasting states to being okay --
like being anxious to breathe you whatever I
do, but then I might suddenly not be okay anymore
halfway through the list. Oui, suddenly -- how
unfair does that sound -- while the process of
getting to being okay happens gradually. Sneakily,
gradually. Je vais bien, Paris. I shouldn't get
used to it, but I'm grateful for it. I have been
doing everything I can to make us work -- you,
me, and London, and so it is time for things
to happen and to unfold, for me, for us, without
much interference from my faux Parisian self,
and without any influence from my self-deprecating
British mind. It is time for things to happen
and to unfold. Suddenly or gradually. For us.
For me.