A late night

It's not my fault, I tell myself as I hold my glass of Poire Williams and stare at the bookcase. I can't choose what words remind me of. Like the fact that "cul sec" takes me back to that cramped Peruvian disco, the smile and the closeness which was oh so much much more than camaraderie I thought. Hands running across my forearms.

This a classic French family evening. Laughter in the car, a posh restaurant enjoyed without self-righteousness. The open, unpretentious way of these people. The realisation only now, as it always is, too late, that writing is all that makes me happy.