We had to open the wine with scissors, and we each had a full baguette and a full bottle of red wine, and there we were on the hostel floor in Paris going what the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck, as though we’d materialized through the mist that hung over the city with notes about our past written in pen on our palms and slowly rubbing off: Grew up in the house with the red door and the paint peeling off the windowsill; saw a woman get mugged while walking home one night and didn’t know how to help; and then we were in Paris, getting drunk off two Euro bottles of red wine and going what the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck?
Nothing was simple. We knew absolutely that nothing was simple. I mean there we were, in Paris, sitting on the hostel floor, getting drunk off two Euro bottles of red wine and saying what the fuck over and over again. I mean, what were we doing in Paris?