When you’re sitting down with a martini after a long day, and you hear faint voices coming from somewhere off to your left, in the bookcase, slightly staticky and intimate as if from a distance that is both great and small at once, and you pick up your headphones and hold them up to the side of your head to check if you’ve a rogue popup ad bleating in the background, and it’s silent, so you put them back on the shelf and take another sip, and then they come back. Moi aussi, moi aussi, you can just make out over the hushed roar of the fan, and holy shit, do you have French ghosts? so you sit there for a minute with the condensation growing clammy on the glass (ghosts produce a sense of clamminess) and pick up your headphones again to greet the same quiet, and then qu’est ce que vous avez mmrph (enunciate, ghosts, I can barely speak alive-person French), and you don’t really believe in ghosts but why is your bookcase whispering to you? and finally you realize that your iTunes started playing Pimsleur tapes and you’ve just been checking your headphones during the pauses for you to practice your mealymouthed je vais manger maintenant’s, and for better or worse there are no francophone ghosts in your bookcase; it’s just Wednesday night with the fan in the window and a rapidly warming drink and no sense of wonder, not really, not anymore.
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