Sometimes I book a room in a hotel on the next street. So I can be alone. So I don't have to talk to anyone except room service. The first time I did it was when my roommate was hosting a dinner party. I didn't want to talk, didn't have the strength to laugh at drunk people's jokes. I've done it again since, not often, two, maybe three times, when I really couldn't take any more.

He's going to get tired of me not talking to him, avoiding him the way I do. He must think I'm strange or rude. I cared a lot about being polite when I was a child, but I'm over that now, too. Every time he asks if I want to have dinner together, I think it's because he wants to throw me out. But he doesn't. He takes me to a nice restaurant. He gets the bill. He says it's a pleasure. He asks if I'm writing. I thank him.

Summer's finally here. It's hot. He's away a lot of the time. I have the apartment to myself. I've met a girl, as well. We kept flirting. She was with someone. We ended up getting together. You have to be in love to stay in Paris for the summer.

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