I am not going to start this letter as usually… with an empty remark on the time that has passed by from the last time I wrote to you… no, I will try to be better this time, without so much time lost in translation between emotions and words…

Funny, isn’t it… you can be word-professional but still find that sometimes is easier to feel than to express…

But… who am I talking to? You are the expert in that, you should consider giving lessons, or making a show… that everything-can-be-survived guy from French Foreign Legion and you…shoulder to shoulder…

Anyway, just blabbing tonight, not as I have had anything smart to share… I just felt like talking, and I have checked MSN, but Jim wasn’t online and Gab had a toothache (funny reason not to be talkative on typing messenger, now when I think)… you weren’t there either, of course… but I am used to that… I bet that you are enjoying wilderness too much to do trivial stuff like going online just to inform people that you are still among living ones…

You should see me, sitting in the kitchen with the laptop in my lap (as its name says) listening to some shitty music from BC and dying to chat… with you… or Jim… (Gab was the third, worst option)… felt like speaking English… It is somehow easier to get all this out in English…

Have I ever told you how much I like Jim? He is such a great guy, great person… I remember when we were playing snooker, that night when you have decided to socialize with M. and watch some stupid war movie… he came, took me out of my room, took a bottle of dark red wine and keys from that stone-deaf grandpa’s at the reception and he forced me to play snooker. Ever since we have all played together that stupid game when we came back from fields and drunk, singing Gloria Gaynor, I was soooo convinced that I cannot play snooker…

So we played, listening to music and he told me that he was forty, that he is married and that he dislikes broccoli with blue cheese – our chef’s speciality… he made me laugh, deliriously, nervously… but… I forgot to watch the time, I forgot to expect, I forgot to be sad…  I remember you entering the Snooker room with the question mark written all over your forehead, I remember that night so well… and your touch, later, while we were heading towards big white doors… I remember that Jim was dressed in dark blue… and that M. drank half a bottle of mead himself… I remember … your smell… that choking sense in my throat on the very idea of being close to you… and the last cigarette outside with you, in your white polo shirt rubbing my shoulders wrapped in scarf…

OK. I definitely like Jim. I still talk to him… long and often, too… sometimes I am close to feeling guilty when I realize that I am using him as a substitute telling him things I would like to whisper to you… he is okay… he knows… I know that he knows…although we never mention you… although he would never ask… I know that he knows… and he accepts it as a part of me…

BTW, have I ever told you how much I like Jim? For real?