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January 1, 2012

I made dinner for friends at home. five people in our tiny apartment. adele’s live at the royal albert hall on repeat. we drank japanese and red wine, we drank gin and we ate moussaka. I used the same recipe my grandmother has been using for the last fifty years. it tasted the same. I called my friend in bosnia, I wished her a happy new year. I called my other friends in europe, too. and then my phone rang. it was somebody I would have never expected. we watched the fireworks, drank more. made sure we had enough for the taxi ride across the harbor. senses. crowds of people everywhere. I kept calling the french boy the entire night. over and over. he got stuck at the police station for crossing the road at a wrong place. it was seven in the morning when I saw him finally. tears, but not mine. breakfast at his father’s place. I peeled mandarins for myself, one after another. the french boy and I cuddled in his bed, we fell asleep with our legs intervened together. I was thirsty. he gave me his keys so I could go down and buy us something to drink. we fell asleep again. you talked to your cousin, I listened. I was texting filmmaker who couldn’t believe that at four o’clock in the afternoon I still wasn’t home. I showered later, still feeling my strong heartbeat. I fell asleep before it was dark. he did not call ever since. I like it that way.