Met the neighbor boy with the Wodehouse name whilst ill, today, clambering up the stairs on my way back from ballet. (With a fever of 38.6 °C and a scuffed pink pair of slippers in one hand.) Feeling hopelessly out of place here because no one understands, not really, not how excruciatingly exquisite everything can be. And I know I mustn’t be so sad. Mustn’t, mustn’t mustn’t. Stolen Henry’s old bomber jacket as a (hopeless) cure. Mustn’t be so cold in this indian summer heat, he says. Mustn’t, mustn’t, mustn’t. There are a lot of things I mustn’t do, you see. Either it’s ‘stop-all-this-nonsense-at-once’ or it’s ‘oh-you-poor-dear’ and I hate them both, hate them both so, so wretchedly it makes my skin burn and kindles a fire in my chest until I can’t stop myself crying. And I feel silly for crying. For looking like a wilted English rose on a side-path through the park.
The kitchen is completely devoid of milk. And this is a great tragedy because I am desperate for some tea, but I can’t seem to make it past my front door. (The one with the too-small keyhole that my key never fits.) Until it’s three in the morning and I realise I wasn’t made to miss things. Then it is three in the morning and I am marching like a Greek soldier in a phalanx of one off to conquer the dairy aisle of the grocer’s. (Then to come back and fight a battle against my front latch.) It seems all I do is worry, worry, worry and there isn’t any time for other things or other people. Some days it’s all only white, then the next it’s all only Cs and who knew eyes could ever seem so cruel? Even Alexandre just sits and stares, watching from the corner, doing nothing but looking on—devastated.
I am alone here, you see. Not even the moths will be my friends.