Lettre à x (en anglais)

He was looking around, puzzled, as if asking to himself why on Earth he was in her bedroom. I mean, fair enough, that was a good question, she wasn’t sure neither. None of them had the answer so they pretended it was absolutely normal and she opened the curtains to show him the bomb shelter at the back end of the garden. The snow was covering it, like a dusty white powder, like cocaine. Slightly less exhilarating though. Later on, he told her that he was feeling empty, that nothing would fill the space inside him, not even listening to Molchat Doma, not even eating a garlicky urad dhal or the anchovies from a pizza, not even sitting on a bench in the sunny park, not even her. Firstly she was offended, because of course she was already planning to fly to Moscow and Sligo, to read the books at his mums, to teach him some verlan over a croissant filled with cheddar and raspberry jam and to hear again his voice through her phone when he was drunk in the bathroom. But suddenly he was another stranger in the world, someone she would probably struggle to recognise in a crowded pub, or like a ghost we prefer to avoid.


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