saint-jean
Fête nationale. Monday, everybody off. Blue flags on every second balcony on Mentana. The guys across the street put a speaker on the sidewalk at noon and played the same twelve songs until dark, and by evening the whole street knew all the words except me.
Mme Desrochers sat out front on a kitchen chair for her last Saint-Jean on this street. Josée brought her a beer with a straw. People she's known for fifty years came by and kissed her on both cheeks. She held my hand for a minute and didn't say anything.
I've been sleeping on the couch since the 9th. The phone stays in the bedroom, recording on its own. I don't listen every morning now. I listen on Sundays, all at once, with Félix on the phone. Most nights it's me. Some nights it's nobody. Nothing new from the other one.
The CLSC put me on the list for the sleep clinic. Eight to fourteen months.
Fireworks somewhere towards the river until after midnight. At one, somebody was still singing "Gens du pays" down the street, badly.