Interminable Gloaming and Imminent Departure

The bed was slept in and the sheets are crumpled.  Mismatched shoes and wrinkled dresses and stretched-out shirts are strewn between the bed and the desk.  The door of the cupboard, from which cellphone chargers and sticky notes are spilling, is open.  Mugs stained with tea and coffee are lined up by the sink.  Books are stacked on every available surface.

Soft crackles of thunder sound in the distance.  The rain drops speckle the tin roof of the neighboring building.  The smell of damp grass and wet pavement rises like sweet steam from a cup of tea.

Paris in the quiet afternoon hours of a Saturday.  A woman is shaking out and folding white sheets; I can see her at her open window in the building across the garden. 

I feel as though I'm watching myself in a movie--the camera pans around my room, taking in the mess, the girl sitting at her computer, the sound of gentle rain--as though this scene belongs to someone else.  As my remaining time in Paris shrinks from a few months to a few weeks and, soon, to a few days, I feel oddly devoid of emotion.  I remember the times when I couldn't wait to leave; I remember the times when I hated the very thought.  Now that my departure has transitioned from an abstract notion at the edge of thought into a reality that must be dealt with on a very banal level, I don't know what to think.  I stand at a distance, watching myself go through the motions.

I began writing on a Saturday.  Now it's Monday night and hot.  Really, vachement chaud.  "Mais cette chaleur, c'est insupportable!" is the complaint on everyone's lips.  I'm at my desk, windows wide open, curtains hanging still and listless.  The heavy blue above the buildings grows heavier with the falling night and rising damp.  We are all hoping for rain.  

The neighboring church bells are about to ring 10pm but it's not quite dark.  The days have been unbelievably long; dusk seems to last for hours.  Le crépuscule s'allonge doucement sur les cheminées.  "Crépuscule"--whose closest English translation is in fact the rarely-used "crepuscule"--is one of my new favorite words.  Soft, round, and heavy like a good down pillow.  It weighs on the tongue and has an enveloping, but gentle, sound.

I hope I don't forget my French too quickly once I'm back in the States.  Though I have to admit that the recent heat wave has reminded me why I can't wait to get out of the city.  A deep ambivalence follows my every move.

The night air is thick and sultry.  My eyes are drooping.  The crépuscule has finally ceded to the deep purple of night.  I hope I come back.