I’m smoking a cigarette on the porch of the apartment. It's been almost three weeks since we came back from Barcelona. I kick my foot nervously. I'm waiting for Clea to come back from work to talk to her. To tell her what? I don’t know. Well… What we’ve decided while we were in Spain. There is no easy way to do it. I look at my luggages in the lobby and think back to how I'm going to tell her.
I look at her and her millions of bags. She will go to the kitchen and drop everything on the way. She will leave her shoes in the living room, open a beer and crash into the sofa. I'm not going to say anything ... not right now. She’s always exhausted when she comes home. She never wants to talk. And to force the conversation is taking the risk of getting yelled at. She will put a record of Léo Ferré. After about ten minutes, she will pretend to be interested in my life. I will tell her that I have written a bit and read some articles on sociopoetics. So boring! I had a glass of Scotch while waiting for her to arrive. Then, she will notice that I did not do the supper. Naively, she's going to tell me, "Do you want to order from Nick? ". Clea, we need to talk. I'll swallow my saliva, look for my words. The speech I had prepared in my mind will have faded away. I will be silent for a moment. I'll be afraid of hurting her. I thought we had more time, she said looking at my suitcases. She'll finish her beer at once and go back and take another one in the fridge. I still have not said a word. Meanwhile, le Vin des amants plays on the stereo. Will I really need to say something? After all these arguments, all these insults, all these wounds, what could we add? I will probably just take my things and leave the apartment.
A year and a half later, here I am again Chez Nick. This is where I first kissed Clea. I put my bags at the foot of my bench. I look at the waitress trying to remember her name. She does not remember me either. I'll have a burger and a coke, thank you.
