I've been drifting. France, Belgium, Kentucky, New Jersey, Montreal, Moscow.. Temporary homes. Some by choice, others pulled to by fate. But each one offered warm shelter when the rest of the world looked cold and indifferent. The memories created before the age of 12 are recalled in French. They 're dug out of a different personality. She's fading. I smell a bouquet of lavender and I feel her hand reach for me. I want to grab her arm and lock it around my waist but I decide to put the lavender down. I'm not ready to face her. She won't give up, I know. She's got the perseverance I lack. She'll come back to me with an intense look on her face. I'll be on the telephone with my sister in French Guyana or my parents in Moscow and she'll knock on the door. I want to let her in but I'm too lazy to get up from the couch. I hear her kicking the door twice before her steps fade away. No regrets. That's not what my life is about. I am focused on the present. The road is clear in front of me and it's up to me to decorate it the way I want. One bouquet of lavender at a time. One suitcase at a time. She doesn't join me when I'm traveling. The high is too powerful for me to notice her. She knows she would be wasting her time. I want to spend the rest of my life in a hotel room. Until I hear the night clerk address me by my first name. Then, I pack my suitcase, grab all the little bottles in the bathroom and exit quietly. The taxi driver opens the door and I slide in the cab. I'm not alone. Sitting next to me, she grabs my hand, puts her head on my shoulder, and, with a long sigh, closes her eyes.