La salle à manger, le repas, le salon, moi, avant la porte.
Monsieur de Ribier's family tree, a clock with hands, the absent pears, the daily preparation of sauces and dressings, standing before the window, music often entering from l'École Normale de Musique de Paris, a complicated set of keys, the unfamiliar taste of Coca Cola, and all of those evenings I mistakenly mistook airplanes for shooting stars.
