When will you have time to see Paris?

Had to cancel on a movie date (Paris). Sunday, mon copain asks, When will you have time to see Paris? I don't know! I reply, distressed. I mean Paris, the movie. Oh. Tuesday night?

Returning to my flat this morning—from a long night that began with a 5 PM wine tasting at Fish La Boissonnerie (69 rue de Seine)—I felt like small Mario in big Paris. Everyone's on his or her way to work, or school, after an Easter weekend of chocolate eggs, family, lamb dinners, Mass in big churches. A girl with clear skin and white headphones opens a bottle of Coca-Cola. I'm watching her take a drink in slow motion. She smiles, puts the cap back on. I'm jealous of how smoothly it probably goes down, how sweet and spiky it probably tastes. Wish I were drinking Coca-Cola and going to high school. Me, I have a sore throat, I feel achy, feverish, hungover. J'suis malade encore une fois, I write to mon copain. A salt water gargle and an Ibuprofen later, I sleep for most of the day. Wake up in a pool of sweat and watch part of Jarmusch's Down By Law. Sleep more, black and white images of Tom Waits and John Lurie in my head.

I've emerged from my room and am force-feeding myself the same dish I've been making for weeks, mini penne rigate with canned peas and grated Emmental. Roommate is in his room cheering on a snow leopard on Planet Earth. CNN.com tells me Brain-damaged woman at center of Wal-Mart suit. Huge Antarctic ice chunk collapses. I'll see Paris tomorrow.