Lulucat
woke me up way too early Saturday morning. We all went to bed early Friday
night. No sex last night. And it had been a bit of an issue. Titi de Paris had
gone to work in the provinces for the day: his train had left at 7 or so from
the Gare Montparnasse – not, as the Fransh say, the door next door – and I was
feeling ambivalent about our sexual ritual. So when Titi de Paris went into
crisis because a slice of super-juicy pear had fallen to the floor after ricocheting
off his shirt – Calvin Klein s’il vous plait, but still, just a teeny
bit of an overreaction to such a little incident – I abandoned all hope of
being entered into, but not without a little overreaction crisis of my own.
None of this stopped us from getting to sleep, luckily. I only made it through
ten or so pages of Hugo’s Notre Dame, shamefully ill chosen passages of
which are on my syllabus for Tuesday, before fading off, and Titi de Paris
shortly followed me to the restful netherworld.
The sun was
not even totally up when Lulu started prancing over her sleeping daddies. With
an occasional meow just to make sure we noticed. After an entirely
unaccountable amount of time, I snapped into sitting posture with a “Goddammit
Lulucat!” and jolted out of bed to go shove all the books on the little shelf
of one of the nooks where she hides when the atmosphere is tense right on her
cat ass. She took shelter in the dirty clothes hamper and I made tea. 8:30 am
on a Saturday. Sitting at my computer reading useless things, miffed that
Israel’s latest provocation in Jerusalem did not get so much as a headline in
the NY Times, while the US accusation that Iraqi resistance arms were coming
from Iran (yes, so, yet again, WWIII is here and being waged under our refined
consumer noses), I ended up thinking that I might well need something smart to
chew on as much as I needed dick. So though Titi de Paris, as we were hitting
our early sack, had promised to offer his services in the afternoon of today, I
ended up getting him out of bed at 10 not for sex, but so that we could go to
market together much earlier than usual – Christelle, the fruit and vegetable
vendor noticed, telling us we were “en avance” – and get our asses to
the movies. We went to see Das Leben der Andere.
Good choice. (“Go, Wilma. Go, Wilma.”) Because this
movie rocks.
Recent Comments