Little Paris in mid-June, long past last call, tree-lined, deserted boulevards witness peace-making attempts at the café near the train station, my best friend and— wait— what are we, on the kitchen table?

we’d be falling asleep (two months from now) on the kitchen table, I left croissants for mom and dad, feeble attempt to excuse myself for not having been home for three days and nights, and for the coming years, a blatant plea not to ask questions

victims of own mythologies, in agreement on the exhausting nature of first times — all beside the point