I’ve gone a year without getting sick and I remember in horror the city where I touched everything. So much pushing and grasping of tickets and gates and latches and buzzers and chairs and rails and doors. Two bisous for every acquaintance—and four for your dad—and my glasses collide with all of them. Every step is a chance encounter with gum and cigarettes: wet, white, spat-out vices. Contents of pockets are leaked into chairs. We could be suffocated by the intimations of mouths and hands. Ça me dégoûte; ça me plaît.
