Les artichaux were delicious, by the way. And so was she.
"It has something to do with not feeling whole sometimes." she tells me, while we drink absinth from little crystal glasses.
"In the heavy fog in winter, when watching vapour curl out of the dark oily canal against a cold grey sky, I want to break every surface, dig into the frozen earth, tear up the street to discover what's underneath. I want more."
"But are you not happy?"
"I can't answer that." she says decisively. "I feel like I am living at the wrong speed, at the wrong moment, on a wrong level even. My feelings do not belong to me. How can I say I am happy: I only feel happy when I catch a glimpse of a possibility. To depart. To disappear."
"Are You seeing a shrink?" I ask, getting a bit worried.
She stares at the hairy inside of her artichoque.
"Of course not."