Saturday mornings are good for writing. They release a scent of leaving behind a week of work in The Machine and finally having time to relax, to enjoy my coffee while listening to some old tavern jazz form a guy with a name I won’t remember in the afternoon. I love as well the silence that comes with it, the faint buzzing of the outside world as heard form a 26th floor of a Parisian building, the semi-obscurity of the room due to long blood-red drapes and the closed window rolls that don’t actually cover the last two squares near the coffee grinder by the kitchen. The inside is a modern mixture of old, of functional and some IKEA, with french shadows and German linings and an eastern-Europe Greek Orthodox accent embodied in the icon of the Virgin Mary with Child throning on the wall, right from the entrance. I always wanted a wooden floor and when finally found one, I put a fat blue rug right on the middle next to the sofa covered in white, gray and black squared plush. The refrigerator stands white and tall, and mostly silent, humming its tune in a duet with the English radio on its top next by the 6.99€ plant bought form a shady LIDL nearby. The wooden basket used for garbage sits on the other side of the fridge, hidden form the room, next to the sink, cooking table, oven and anything one could wish for a kitchen in a 33sqmt Paris studio flat. A magnet with a housewife flexing her biceps and spelling “We Can Do It”, sticked onto the white large front of the fridge seems awfully out of place, like a hint of putrid Americanism as that one cactus I had to throw in the bin of the three I got as a new home present from a couple of friends visiting from out of town. The darts game hanged not far, sleeps gathering dust since two or three days after stumbling upon it in a shop outside of Paris and thinking it would be a great idea of an activity during the first confinement. And there is that red cat collar with a golden bell from a chocolate Easter bunny that would ended up as decoration, never to be actually eaten, and now pended form the handle of the right upper kitchen shelf. One last slice of baked pumpkin, half an almond bread and traces of coffee and maybe spices spread near the electric cooker added an ordinary and domestic touch to the scene.

There is a calming loneliness laying all around, emanating from the static, dead nature, shy like a virgin teacher, kindly asking to be disturbed in a warm and joyful manner…