Trafika Europe 12 - French Bon-Bons

Anne F. Garréta

your bags, for tomorrow the symposium would come to a close, the French novelists would take off for Paris, and you for New York, where you lived at the time. For once, you would go to bed early. How long has it been since you went to bed early? You stood in your boxer shorts, toothbrush in hand, when the telephone rang. Your novelist proposed that you meet her at the bar for a last drink. That or insomnia… You slipped on your pants and took the elevator down. You are sitting at a low, round table in one of those “club” armchairs. Wedged comfortably deep in the chair, legs stretched out before you. The bar is of the red velvet, wood paneling, and softened lights variety. The image in your memory is suffused with its dim red glow. The novelist is named E*, she is sitting to your left in an identical armchair set at a right angle to yours. She is sitting on its edge, hunched over. All her mannerisms, even her way of sitting, are of a perfect femininity. Or: how to occupy the least possible amount of space in the world. You ordered a cognac, you’ll order several more before leaving the bar. You think you remember two identical glasses on the table before you. But you can’t be sure that she was also drinking cognac. As for the conversation, you think she began by focusing on your bad manners, the rather un-feminine way you have of dressing (as proof: the leather jacket you always wear), of behaving, of speaking without seeming to give

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