you read me like a paperback
I found warmth in domestic happiness: making pizza dough from scratch, baking cookies with the kids, getting my laundry done and cooking for myself in my tiny kitchen.
I found warmth in my relationship with the boy I take care of, who spent the day at home with me because of an ear infection, drinking tea with me and talking ninety miles a minute about soccer. We've grown a mutual respect for each other. These days I can't do laundry without him coming to talk to me, following me around the apartment as I do chores.
I found warmth inside of Palais de Tokyo, where I met a new friend for a look around the current exposition, and my ulterior motive, cocktails and dessert in the restaurant.
And today, when the sun finally came out, I took myself closer to the sun, and climbed aboard a hot air balloon that took me up into the sky.
In the evening I came back down to earth, sipped cocktails and dined on tapas with friends, and said goobye to a friend who leaves to India in a few hours. With one friend gone another page has been turned, and I can feel the story of my life here coming to an end. Not now but soon, so soon.
But life goes on, and I continue to chase my daydreams down the sidewalk, knee deep in my Parisian stride, dodging sleazy men and cafe tables. "Bon soir! Princesse! Bon soir!"
Tomorrow my mother arrives, the brightest sunshine of all, and we'll spend three days walking arm in arm, before she takes off to the South.
That'll be another story.