And so he came unto us...

And he was a twat.

Ugh. R's husband is here. I think she should divorce him, but she won't. She's in love with him. She was floating round on cloud nine today, laughing, waltzing around the kitchen. Smiling and showing all her teeth. She hasn't done that in a long time. Is it because she loves him, or because she thinks she's won him back?

She had to pick up H from the metro, and so I had to open the door to him whilst she was away. He's brought a huge suitcase with him. He'll be staying a while. 'Open the door for him', were her words, 'il ne va pas s'attarder a venir'. Unlike all those years after you were ill, when he was late in coming. He never came, in fact. Now, however, you're healthy. You're pretty, and so he's come back. I have to open the door, because when he wants to come, he can. It's that easy for him. It's so unfair. Why is he allowed to run off with another woman, leave you and come back, as though nothing had happened? Why do you make such an effort for him? He doesn't deserve it. I want to scream at him. 'Tu n'es bien a rien, tu n'es pas suffisament bien pour lecher ses bottines, pauvre con. Caisse toi. Va te faire foutre, parce qu'elle puisse faire beaucoup mieux que toi. Tu penses que tu puisses juste revenir, comme ca? Tu ne merites rien. Tu l'as laisse, tu l'as double et la, tu veux revenir. Pensent que tes airs de grand philosophe, de grand conoisseur de politique vont l'entrainer. Peut-etre. Mais, quant a moi, je sais toujours que tu es miserable, un miserable petit homme qui est lache, plein de couardise. R, elle vaut 10 de toi. Va te faire voir, encule de ta race'. I could say it all. I'd shout it, so that he could hear. I'd enjoy those words, and I'd pronounce them perfectly. He'd have no problems understanding my meaning.

It might be different. I don't know how they speak between themselves, what they discuss or what they don't. I've never heard R shout at him, though. He comes back, the house is cleaned, food is prepared. I wanted to tell him that he was lucky to have crossed the threshold. I wanted to tell him that he wasn't fit to lick her boots. He came in, with his suitcase, and I didn't say any of this. I didn't smile, but I offered him tea. I am English. I gave him green tea when he asked for it. I imagined putting arsenic in it. There he was, awkwardly making conversation with me. He can't hear well, and my English accent troubles him.

I open the door
I let him in
He stands
On the old terrain
With a new opponent

I make him weak tea
Unsmiling
Imagining riotous words
That I roll under my tongue
For R
I roll for R.

Je roule pour toi. Donc je retiens ma langue.

Et voila, I feel like shit...

I don't know why. Actually, I do. Last week, I was all sunbeams- I'd found work as a translator, I had D. Now I'm not so sure. I despise being the person that's exciting for five minutes, but that never creates long-term links.

1. As my boss pointed out to me, the new job is permanent. I've got a month's trial period. They could sack me within that month. I could mistranslate something that would kill someone, and get sacked and rejected from the entire career of translator or interpreter.

2. D is not interested. B drove me to hers late last night, and wanted to buy some hash from her. D wasn't interested. Does asking her to sell hash to B make me a horrible person? I thought of it in terms of asking to borrow a bit of sugar from someone when you've ran out. She didn't want to see me after. She doesn't give a fuck, because we only fuck. I don't particularly care about her, either, but being rejected isn't nice. Once weekly was nice, too.

She was moody and only wanted to do things her way. I'm better off well shot. I can focus on people I'd really like. It's still depressing, even so.

3. R had a little party tonight and I was most definitely not invited. I could hear her downstairs, and I think she invited K. She bought K books for her birthday. She bought me gloves. She likes K more and doesn't particularly give a damn about me. Of course. K is at Sciences-Po and enjoys discussing philosophy and politics, can empathise with R's tiny build because she is similarly sparrow-like and goes to T'ai Chi. I wouldn't trust her further than I could throw her, but then, R seems to be happy to welcome her husband back with open arms, who cheated on her, so what's K, thrown into the bargain? R likes clever, powerful people, and I am neither. I was a nice placeholder, whilst she was feeling sad, and now that she's feeling good, never mind. R said she'd never forget, but she does, she has and now she just thinks I'm stupid and not worthwhile. I need to move out of here.

Apart from my family, I can't really make people care about me. Even my University 5, who I was so close to, all forgot my birthday and didn't bother sending me anything, though I send them things. Nobody gives a damn, because I am not worth giving a damn about. They might care that I'm far away, but they don't really. I am fully replaceable, as is everyone, and utterly forgettable. Apart from my family, I don't think anybody really gives a shit. I feel abandoned and dejected and unlovable. Ugh. Having written all this makes me pitiful as well.

What would you do if you won the lottery?

1. Buy flats or property in Paris, Berlin and England. One in my home town, and one in London so that I could visit friends.

2. Pay off my student loan, and pay my Mum and Dad back for what they gave me. Help my family if needs be, and friends that are desperate.

3. Study for a masters degree. I'd take one in economics or finance, then I'd do a course in photoshop illustrator. I'd also do a translation masters and a masters in technology, or computer programming or some such.

4. Go to Russia.

5. Invest some in shares.

6. Some frivolous, immediate purchases:

An apple mac

New clothes- some of those Victorian style boots with thick soles, dresses, jumpers (I have amassed a large collection of cardigans, I evidently liked them at one point, but I find them twee now, and they're all baggy and out of shape), some shoes with a stock heel and a thick sole, a blazer, a coat with a hood that doesn't come in that odd puffy fabric, a pair of really nice flared trousers from Gap and maybe some shirts

Aveda moisturiser

An I-phone and a monthly contract

Lenses for my camera (a fish eye and a macro)

An Ikea spree for the new property I'd have purchased

Dancing or gymnastics lessons. I really miss dancing and gymnastics, but all the lessons are so expensive here.

Painting things. I want to try oils. I'd get myself some canvases and brushes, and a set of propelling pencils, and some really brilliant equipment.

I would eat a formule in my favourite restaurant every day, and drink lots of kir.

Life in a Scenic World

I lie down like a tired dog... licking its wounds in the shade.

Here's how our life would be, HC.

We'd live in Germany or France, maybe even England for a few years. You'd continue your brilliant work, I'd have a career in translation and interpreting. I'd draw a bit on the side.

We'd live in a nice flat, nice, not astonishingly magnificent, but a place with enough space. Three or four rooms, a comfortable sofa, decorated in a chic way. You'd cook and I'd wash up (because I like washing up, and you prefer cooking). We'd watch stupid things that we both enjoy together, and you'd teach me about maths. At the weekend, we'd go walking, or friends would come to visit us, or we'd do both. We'd do some sporting things. You'd play your saxophone, and I'd play my little guitar.

We'd laugh a lot, and we'd hold each other a lot. We'd doze off in each other's arms and we'd decorate for Christmas, a big tree with lots of baubles and fairy lights. You'd discover that I can't organise anything to save my life, that I am jealous and pedantic.

It would be hard at first, telling everyone that knows us that actually, we've fallen for each other. It would only be hard for me to tell my parents, and even then, it wouldn't be too bad, because I'm so proud of you. Even if we're not in a relationship, I'm proud that you're my sort-of friend. You're honest, you know about maths, you are funny and kind and clever. You say what you think, your voice is lovely and I think you're absolutely beautiful. There's no one else I'd rather touch, no one else I'd rather look at. It would probably be harder for you.

At Christmas, we'd watch all of the Christmas films together, drink port and lemonade, red wine, gluehwein, snowballs and beer, and we'd walk around our European town to look at all the lights. We'd play in the snow. Our first Christmas, just the two of us, we'd wake up and give each other our little things, then cook a huge dinner. Maybe friends would come, maybe not.We'd intermingle traditions; mince pies and snowballs with whatever you do. Maybe we'd go to hear a mass; you believe, I don't, but I like hearing the nuns singing and the general historical feel.

We'd argue sometimes, I'm sure, but we'd be happy. I'd want us to argue. I can't stand relationships that aren't honest, especially with the person you're meant to be closest to. It feels as though my flirtation with D is chipping away at my desires for others, not because I like her that much, but because I am giving myself to her. I feel like I'm trying her out, as if it's commercial, and I don't like that.

I'd rather have you.

Alone together.

I am not at all sure how I feel about you. You don't give anything away, or you don't give anything to me. I don't know if I love you, or if I could, because you don't even want to give 'Fairytale of New York' a chance and prefer to listen to your odd, syncopated beats. I like them too, but I'd like it if you were open to what I like.

I don't feel that instant connection with you, that I felt with HC.

Yet, you teach me so gently, with your lubricated rubber gloves 'for hygiene' and you don't ask anything of me.

Sometimes, when I'm with someone who professes to adore me, and yet I don't adore them, I feel alone. Together. The first time you had sex with me, I didn't feel like that, so it was easy. Last night, I felt a bit alone. It was all too fast- I got in, and you wanted to straight away, but I didn't.

I wanted to watch a wintry film, and you didn't.

You wanted to sleep naked, and you did, but I kept my pyjama bottoms on, and you wouldn't touch me because you were 'too hot'. And I don't know, now, whether or not I adore you.

I imagine, if it ever was to happen with HC or with anyone, that we would be able to fall asleep in each other's arms and go out at the weekend and that we'd be proud of each other. With you, it's not like that. It's not my vision of how it should be. It's not what I want. It's different, and I can't throw myself in as much with you as I thought I'd be able to after that first week. I'm not desperate to hear your voice or to hear from you at all. I don't like that. I want to have that feeling of falling head over heels. I haven't got it with you, and I don't even know whether or not I want to. Do I want to be with someone who doesn't want to listen to me properly?

I want to learn from you, and I want to know about how. I want to turn you on but I'm not sure. I don't like the feeling that I'm watching myself from overhead, I don't like feeling alone at the moment that we're meant to feel together. It makes me feel lonelier.

B once said that she just feels doubly as sexy, if she's not into the other person. I feel isolated.

Regrettant mon amour...

Oh God.

I think R is going to get back together with her husband. Who was never really not her husband. I still despise him, because he's useless, and I don't like him. He's a patronising arsehole, and I can't believe that he could have done what he did. His watery brown eyes, habitual deafness and way of humming around the house, as if to extricate himself from a delicate situation. A situation that is not delicate, because it's cut and clear- you left. Now you're back. I don't care that he's clever, or ostensibly kind, or brings her roses without giving her a proper response. Flowers that fade from a man that can't damned well live up to his responsibilities and lives his life humming. I can't bear what he did to her.

Which means I'll have to move out, which I was planning to do anyway, but even so, this house is a sort of home. It's not as much of a home as it was, when R and I were in our honeymoon phase, but it is, nonetheless. The district and the house. R said I didn't have to, but I won't be able to bear being round them both. I haven't told her yet.

I feel vaguely guilty. If I'd been more present, if I'd been around, if we'd still had that honeymoon phase, if we'd been quicker to make up after we had that argument. That nags at me. I don't believe they have arguments, and you should argue with the person you've been with all your life. Especially when they betray you. I can't accept that these things are done so quietly, without the least modicum of fuss. I am fussed.

I am worried that he will hurt her again. I can't say any of this to her. I think she's too good for him, and I think that he should have been kissing her feet rather than being vague. I think he should have made promises that he kept instead of giving roses. Flowers and perfume, to say what? Flimsy, beautiful gifts that evaporate and die. To paper over a rift. To portend to romance. To pretend to philosophical notions of what love is. I might not know, or have much experience in it, but I know enough to know that love is hard, love argues, love stays and love apologises. People think that love is some sort of ethereal concept, intangible, for those with refined sensibilities. I am willing to bet that he's playing on this notion. 'I can't give you a response... love is complicated'. No. Love is fidelity. It kills me to think that R might believe that everyone around her thinks that this is a good idea. I do not think it is a good idea. I think she deserves far better. I tell her that her happiness is important, and that I'm behind her.

She wants him back as well. Why? She's in a good mood when he's here. She loves him, probably. She might not have stopped loving him. Why am I bothered? My selfish desires for a home aside, I was never going to be here forever, hence it's far better that R has got someone to be with long-term. I was never going to take central stage; she wants to shove me off into a corner and surround me with non-breakable things. I just can't bear him.

Apparently her mother liked him.

So does K.

Yet roses wilt.

Quand vous serez bien vieille... tu peux faire beaucoup mieux que ce connard, avec son moustache et ses pensees moue.

To play it cool...

This time last night, I was stroking your hair, you were lying in my arms, and I was thinking about how soft your skin was and how worrying it is to take a step into the unknown.

I want to send you a text message or an email, but I can't because I don't know what's going to happen with you. I don't know whether or not you want me. I don't know whether or not I want you. I'd give you up for H, for example. Or A. I don't know you, I don't know who you are or what you're like, hardly anything. I know you smoke joints, you've got your uniform, you give me little things. Do you want me around? Are you possessive or jealous, will you fly off the handle, what are you like? You're so taciturn.

I know you didn't force me. I know you're shy. Pourquoi tu me regardes comme ca? Parce que tu es belle. J'aime te regarder.

Another part of me doesn't want to give you any hope. What if someone else comes along, and I have to break you? I'm not sure who I want just at this moment. It's you, I think. I don't want to give you false hope. Yet, in another moment, I'm imagining us lying together and saying, 'je t'aime'. I'd be surprised and say, 'oh'. Toujours inattendu, ca. Then I'd say, 'je t'aime aussi, cherie. Je t'aime'.

I'd like to be round you now. Curled up with you. Last night, early in the morning, you put your arms around me and said, 'j'ai envie de toi'. Little things. I was so sure that I didn't fancy you that much, and now I'm uncertain.

I don't want you to hurt me, and I don't want to hurt you.

You have got
Brown eyes
That watch me
And snaggly little teeth
You make love as if
You're a man
Though less rough
And when you touch me
So gently
I can't help but want you.

Oh, how?

I meet you and you give me a tiny yellow man. Bonhomme jaune. I'm not sure about you. When I'm with you, you are soft and beautiful but you're not H. I don't adore you. But I can't help but think of your arms. You are taciturn, by nature, and have a perfect body, wrapped up in a uniform of grey and denim, to make you look masculine. You're so beautiful.

We have sex, and you're so brusque, as if you're stuffing a chicken. It's easy, but it doesn't set me on fire. Yet, I like it. I like you. I'm just not sure exactly how much. It's odd, how much you remind me of J, with your messy studio flat and hints at other things, deeper and darker. 'Pourquoi tu me regardes comme ca?' you ask. I say, 'parce que t'es belle. J'aime regarder', and stroke your angular face. Odd. You're taciturn when we're not in each other's arms, and I'm taciturn when we are, because I'm evaluating how much I like you. More than or less than? You feel so much more direct when we're half naked. Clearer than I am. In the day, it's the other way round, dressed in our armour, me as a lady (you say) and you in your uniform.

I decided to sleep with you because I do like you, because it was nice to touch you and hear you. Because I should take more risks, I can't just live closed off. But I didn't really love it.

It is nice, in the middle of the night, to have you turn over and put your arms around me and hold my hand. Your spindly little arms that are so strong. I feel calmer, as if I've been destrung, or just repaired somehow. I feel as though you've cleared me out or cleaned me up, though you don't know that.

It's an odd mix. It's not like the other one night stand I had, so difficult and out-of-body. It's more involved but I'm not sure how involved I actually am.

I am sure that you're beautiful. I'm sure that your skin is soft. You're shy, but not when we're together like that.

I don't know why, I got these feelings, yeah...

Oooh. And suddenly, everything changes. I'm not as in love with R as I was, it's settled, and I need to move away, I need to be independent. I want my own space. I want a minimalist place with Danish colours and my book collection on shelves, a cigarette tray, things I've chosen. I also want a job, a good one. I imagine my perfect life relentlessly. That's not what this is about. I've fallen so easily for a woman I've known ten minutes. HC. She lives in another country. She's a friend of a friend, and she knows about maths. She elucidates in short, simple terms and looks shy, but is fierce. She is kind. She hasn't responded to my facebook request.

She's probably not interested in girls. She probably wouldn't come here. I'm probably simply so desperate for someone that I'm ready to fall for the first person that seems reasonable.

It's just that she's so easy. We went out for the day (and the night) with a group of friends. I went to pick someone up from a station with her, and we danced together at night, and I want her to be here now. I want her to be in this little room, telling me intelligent, true things. I want to tell her true things. Not necessarily intelligent ones, because we are inverse; she's so clever, she doesn't need words with more than three syllables. I adore words with more than three syllables, perhaps to put a superficial shell over the vacuity that is my intelligence.

 I'd tell her that I think she's beautiful. I'd tell her that I want her so badly, and I almost never want people badly straight away like that. I'd tell her that even her middle name's not so bad. I'd tell her that I can think of nothing lovelier than the way she dances and includes people, I would tell her that I was sorry I couldn't stop staring and she caught me twice, but I just thought, 'how can it be that I've fallen this fast?'. I wasn't expecting it. It caught me offguard.

And now. You live far away. You've got a career. Even if you were magically interested in women, and then, even more magically, interested in a woman like me, overly garrulous, with no real handle on the world. No real career, no real anything, and there you are, ready to jet off on a tangent but with your feet on the ground. So there, so present. A present. For me. An unexpected union, because at least we did do things together. I'd have kissed you if you'd seemed as if you wanted me to. It would never have happened.

I'd have... I wished for an act of prestidigitation. Somehow.

 There's never a somehow with me, because I never get what I want. I never want what I get. Those two are very different, but very similar. Yet, still, you explained that 'i' was an illogical number, like pi. You answered. You were so kind to everyone, and not as K is, demanding something in return. Just kind. You danced like I did, you were angry that Liverpool accents weren't taken seriously, you straightened your hair and wore leg warmers. You looked perfect, to me. You're so beautiful, I realised, around two hours in. Your face with its upturned lip over your front teeth, your dark shiny hair, your cheekbones and your blue eyes with hooded lids that look, sage and perceptive, at the world. The way that you laugh. Yes, you are lovely, and you've probably got many others telling you so, so I shouldn't bother.

I have people telling me I'm lovely, even beautiful, but it's nobody that I want to inform me of this fact. Men that want to take me for coffee, for a drink, for an 'intimate soiree', for something. I'm sure that they want something long term that I can't give because I adore people like you. Honest, steadfast people that make me really laugh. I light up for the world, people tell me, but nobody really lights me up. It's rare. It's palindromic, an oxymoron, something. People fall for me, they say, because of my face, my ways, my 'lightness of being'. French women are light of body and heavy of mind, and I'm the exact opposite. Lightness of character, because I weigh over 80 kilos. In any case, I'd give up all of those times, those times that someone has told me I'm beautiful to get something from me that I didn't want to give, a smile, a hand, or something else, to hear it from you. I'd exchange them for insults. I'd...

 That's the thing, though. Attracting someone like you isn't as easy as attracting all of them, which I do inadvertently. I don't mean to. I want to be friends, and then, suddenly, they want more. Now it's me that wants more. It's me that's heavy, that weighs on you, that would force... I don't want to force. I couldn't ever get anyone like you. Someone so beautiful and honest, so funny and kind and clever and steadfast, must want someone steadfast and kind and intelligent. Someone like you doesn't want a silly, overgrown girl, who's vague and silly, who masks a lack of knowledge with an egregious vocabulary and her sheer verbosity, who doesn't earn. Someone like you deserves someone better.

 That doesn't stop me from fantasising about holding your hand or caressing your face. Oh darling.

Whispering, whispering, whispering your name.

Is what I've been doing, thinking of you for two weeks on Parisian streets. Whispering to myself (late at night, when nobody else is in sight) that I adore you, darling, and you're beautiful and I hope you're well.

You're worried about H again. Your back aches. I came up to see you (you made me smile) and drank tea, and what I really wanted to do was just put my arms around you and stroke you. I want to wake up in the morning with the softness of your skin next to me, and caress you. You deserve to be woken up by caresses.

You said you would try to be 'discret' with me and V, in the sense of unobtrusive. Oh darling, please don't. You're still the main person in my life at the moment, so there's no need to be. You're not easily replaced. There's no need. I couldn't say that without it all coming out, so I just said, 'non, pas du tout' and smiled at you.

I thought maybe I'd have knocked this feeling on the head. But I can't, dear. When I saw you again, I just wanted to hold you and touch you and make you feel so good. Maybe tomorrow. I want to lean over and kiss you, I want to tell you how much it means to faire des bisous each night, how much it means to just be chatting to you, calmly and quietly. How much you mean to me. And you mean an awful lot. J'ai soif de toi. That's what I won't tell you tomorrow.

You bring me back cigarettes and a lighter and tell me the things that made you think of me. You thought of me. I think of you, often. I need a way of telling you you're important to me whilst not scaring you with this passion. I am looking out for other people, but the problem is qu'elles n'arrivent pas a ta cheville.

Tomorrow we'll eat together and relax, and I'll smoke (you probably will too) and you'll sort your things and I will offer to massage your back at some point. And I'll recite Les Aveugles for you. Let me let me let me faire ce qui te rends heureuse.

I am grateful for you.

I am missing you. I joked today, to the Supermodel, that I was wearing your clothes because I missed you. I put on your coat because it's nearest to hand and it's got pockets for cigarettes and matches, because it buffets me against the wind, I put on your shoes because they're easiest to slip on- but a part of me does like wrapping myself up in the fabric that held your body, soft and safe. I laughed after I'd told her, but there's an element of truth. Tu me manques.

And I'm grateful because you're there, my love. You're present. You're there to laugh with, to tease gently, to be kind to, to share my worries with, and you, in turn, share yours with me. It's very gentle, what we've got. Very sweet. As soft and gentle as the kiss you give me every morning and night, as soft as your silken face, as soft as the scent of soap that emanates from you. You know what I'm thinking, or more to the point, how I think and don't correct my speech because you understand; you understand my pride and you understand me, without having perfect pronunciation. You're kind. And so I am grateful, for this relationship, which, although not the grande coup de foudre, is a bond. A link for me and for you. Between us.

It's something that E, my sister hasn't got. She hasn't got someone to shout, 'bonjour' to when she comes home, she hasn't got someone to remark on the cold to, she hasn't got someone to discuss the finer points of various sorts of bread with. They're the things that are not important, but open the doors to other things. H's epilepsy. Your husband. How I feel about my family. They're the things that I like talking about, the unimportant things that are nonetheless interesting. They're the things I need in the day. Someone to pass the time of day with. It's lucky that you're also beautiful and interesting and funny, and so loving. It's so unlucky that E hasn't. I wish I could give her a week with your safety, with you being with her as you are with me. Life is about having someone to be with. I'm so glad that I'm with you. It's not romantic, it's not even close. But you do love me, in your way, and I don't think that it will change. Friends, or family. Stable and kind, and soft.

Today: things I'd tell you.

Que ton echarpe m'a garde bien chauffee aujourd'hui, malgre le froid.

Que la lune etait belle au-dessus de nos toits.

Que mon joue est fraiche.

Que j'ai mange tant de choses.

Que la supermodele m'a fait du cous cous. Elle est gentille, mais elle ne serait jamais une personne comme toi; c'est a dire, quelqu'une avec qui j'ai cette relation si tendre et si chaleureuse; cette reconaissance d'esprit. Je n'ai pas pense qu'on aurait trouver ca, en commencant. Tu etais chic et reserve et altiere. Mais maintenant, c'est moi qui chauffe pour toi; c'est toi qui me fait des bises, qui me donne des choses, qui montes toutes les trucs que je te donne a toute le monde.

Et si ta journee ne s'est passe bien, je veux te caresser la visage et te donner un bisou, de te prendre par la main et de te carrer confortable dans mes bras. De te dire que tu es belle, tu es fiere et tu es honnete et gentille et intelligente, et surtout que tu m'es si importante. O, ma cherie. Je veux etre la pour toi, quand tu as besoin.

You've gone away for a few days

With H, who's so needy at the moment. I look back and see that there was once a phase when we didn't kiss every day. It's not a real kiss. Just two, on the cheek, the bisous. But once we didn't. Then, after two months, we started- and now it's odd to have a day when you don't kiss me goodbye in the morning or kiss me goodnight.

What I want is to massage your back again. I don't know whether or not you found it odd, or whether you (like me) think it's something we don't do when there are others around, or whether you think it's putting on me. It's not, in any case.

You've made a rod for your own back
Which has already taken so many lashes
You feel like you have to cook
Because it's what you do
And you try so hard to be serene
But it's all paddling frantically underneath
And my love
I want to take you in my arms
And make you happy
And touch my lips to yours
If it's what you want.
You deserve someone you want
And I'd love it to be me
But I can't see
How I could ever find out
Without ruining what we've got
Four daily kisses
Twilight poetry recited under the stars of Parisian rooftops
And your seldom touch
And eternal companionship.
It's a risk.