I thought about the cheese shop around the corner, Nicole Barthelemy, and how on Thursday I need to pick up brébis and beaufort d'été for him, and hot chocolate because his favorite breakfast is good toast dipped in hot chocolate. He doesn't drink any form of caffeine, never has.
I thought about how we bought the famous Parisian bread, Poilâne, at the fromagère in Carpentras, and while it was good, it was a few days old, so I'd have to buy fresh Poilâne for him to try.
FWB makes me want to do nice things for him, thoughtful things. He makes me want to surprise him and buy his favorite cheese and just hug him half to death.
My concentration is shot to hell. I had a midterm in Italian and had a hard time focusing.
Instead I wrote like a madwoman on this blog trying to get it all down so I won't forget anything. Like I did in my moleskine journal last year after I met him.
Then I went down to the card shop on rue du Bac and bought two thank you cards, one for him, and one for his parents. I sat down in my apartment to write them both, paying super close attention to my French, and then went to the post office. They were whisked down to Provence last night.
My words are the truest gift of self I know how to give. This is why I slipped him a goodbye letter in his backpack last year before he left.
I am alone, pinching myself, unable to concentrate, completely and hopelessly swept off my feet, and afraid. Very afraid of the unknown, either way: of him leaving and disappearing, or of him staying and me not knowing where this will go in either case.
I do not know how this story ends.
This is but a chapter.
All I know is what I knew, somehow in my gut last October: it is not over yet.
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