We were elbows to the crowd tonight, me and Nai, with the girls in the striped tops and bra straps, with the boys in the Blade Runner jackets, we were there, six feet from the stage, and whooping it up, first for Spoon, then for the New Pornographers, and it was happy and good and alive like a girl in gold earrings and her favourite green cardigan.
It’s been one of those weeks, you know?, and it’s only Tuesday!, one of those weeks with the non-stop work, the lunch at the desk, the recycled office air all day, the sense of no respite. And Sunday seems so long ago now, Sunday, when I was on a rooftop terrace in the Fifth, and the boy’d brought me out two copies of French Elle to go with the fruit tarts. Sunday was warm on my neck, and the breeze flirting with a rose-print skirt. There were real roses, too, pink ones, roses to bury your nose in while the sun is warm on your neck, while the breeze tickles your skirt.
Friday there’d been a birthday party in Belleville, with a cake in the shape of a sports car. The marzipan licence plate read: COOL 1. Saturday there’d been the birthday apéritifs in the Bastille, with the rainbow garlands, and balloons in the shapes of elephants. Nighttime crept in on tiptoe, and it was almost eleven before we strolled down the street to Les Petits Joueurs for salads and cucumber mille-feuilles. I was slathering butter on a slice of bread when the chef called out from behind the bar: “Si plus tard tu termines pas ton dîner, j’appellerai ma grand-mère.” His hands became claws, and he said, “J’t’arracherai les yeux.”
Sunday night I checked in at the Eurostar terminal, and they said the trains were delayed because there were FLAMES ON THE TRACKS. I should have turned back then, but I kept going. And then there was London, and then there was work Monday morning, and all of a sudden the weekend seemed like a very long time ago.
Just as well, then, that just after seven this evening, there was Nai outside Koko on Camden High Street. I rang him from under the flashing bulbs of Sun Orbit Amusements and said: “I can see you!” “Turn to your nine o’clock,” I said. “I am green.”
Koko is red inside, deep down, deep red, with a giant disco ball hanging from the ceiling three balconies up. Under it, we are all points of light, you and me and the kids way up top. Under it, you bite your lip in a lopsided grin while your hand clap-claps against your hip.
It’s been one of those weeks, you know?, and it’s only Tuesday!, one of those weeks with the non-stop work, the lunch at the desk, the recycled office air all day, the sense of no respite. And Sunday seems so long ago now, Sunday, when I was on a rooftop terrace in the Fifth, and the boy’d brought me out two copies of French Elle to go with the fruit tarts. Sunday was warm on my neck, and the breeze flirting with a rose-print skirt. There were real roses, too, pink ones, roses to bury your nose in while the sun is warm on your neck, while the breeze tickles your skirt.
Friday there’d been a birthday party in Belleville, with a cake in the shape of a sports car. The marzipan licence plate read: COOL 1. Saturday there’d been the birthday apéritifs in the Bastille, with the rainbow garlands, and balloons in the shapes of elephants. Nighttime crept in on tiptoe, and it was almost eleven before we strolled down the street to Les Petits Joueurs for salads and cucumber mille-feuilles. I was slathering butter on a slice of bread when the chef called out from behind the bar: “Si plus tard tu termines pas ton dîner, j’appellerai ma grand-mère.” His hands became claws, and he said, “J’t’arracherai les yeux.”
Sunday night I checked in at the Eurostar terminal, and they said the trains were delayed because there were FLAMES ON THE TRACKS. I should have turned back then, but I kept going. And then there was London, and then there was work Monday morning, and all of a sudden the weekend seemed like a very long time ago.
Just as well, then, that just after seven this evening, there was Nai outside Koko on Camden High Street. I rang him from under the flashing bulbs of Sun Orbit Amusements and said: “I can see you!” “Turn to your nine o’clock,” I said. “I am green.”
Koko is red inside, deep down, deep red, with a giant disco ball hanging from the ceiling three balconies up. Under it, we are all points of light, you and me and the kids way up top. Under it, you bite your lip in a lopsided grin while your hand clap-claps against your hip.
posted by stellou at 1:06 AM
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