I thought the other day that I didn’t write to you that often, I thought that perhaps it was a mistake, that I should send you a letter.
So there you go. It is about – why not ? – the most beautiful morning in the world.
I am sure you’ll remember it, it was snowing. I’d got up early, of course, I always do. Outside it was cold and silent. People must have gone back to sleep. At work, the doorman sent me back home. Honestly, he seemed to be thinking, was I definitely mad ? Was I some kind of lunatic ready to defeat the forces of nature on his own ? Everything was going to stay closed all day, the end of the world, it seemed, was dangerously close.
So I drove back and listening to the news I was half surprised to find out that everywhere else life was going on as usual, that the battle was raging in Afghanistan, that the Nikkei didn’t seem to care.
I found you still in bed, cosy and warm. I lay down next to you and kissed your cheek and forehead. Since that day, it’s something I’ve been doing every morning, I hope you haven’t grown tired of it yet.
I am not too sure what we did after. Did we wake up MC who slept in the living room ? Did we make some coffee ? Did we stick our nose to the window to see Montpellier in the snow ?
We had a free day ahead of us and I felt like throwing snowballs at the sky. We went out and tried not to slip on Chabaneau Square. At some stage I took your hand. You had your red trainers and a woolen coat on.
No one had ever seen anything more beautiful.