Aftermath.

418. When politeness is no longer required.
J., sarcastically: Well, you should go and write to him about how much you've missed him. 
Me, equally sarcastically: Should I tell him that you have been missing him too? 
J., thinking: Tell him that I have been missing him like, how do I say this, like one misses a broken leg.

419. At work. Late afternoon.

Anna: my god do you see that?

Anna: I mean do you see that you can't see?

A white wall of water outside my window, Brussels under a thunderstorm. 

Then, comes the rainbow.

420. Spending the first post-Italy evening together, and having random conversations that would make no sense to anyone, except possibly Zoe if she could hear us, and maybe Mario or Daisy, you know, the ones who were there. Looking up the lottery results of Sora, just in case my ticket or Gaston's was actually the winner of a car, which Mario has already promised to drive to Brussels just in case. Checking the list of James Bond movies, 19 of which were already named during the breathtakingly gorgeous hiking trail in Trieste. "We didn't have A view to kill," I protest. "Yes, I said it, Dangereusement vôtre," he insists. "But that's in French, and you weren't sure..." "Yes, in my head I was sure..." "But that's in your head!" We count it anyway. Debating whether we should get three, white, boooring plastic rubbish bins, me trying to condition on the fact that only if I am allowed to draw on them. Or at least on one of the bins, myself being one of the three flatmates an equity apartment. "Well, I could let you draw, but you have no talent...," after having seen my postcard to my godson, depicting my fellow travelers with neither Zoe nor Gaston (nor myself, for that matter) being remotely recognizable. "Well, when was the last time you ever drew anything?" I ask, implying (probably) that bad drawing is still better than no drawing at all. "Did I draw something last week?" Gaston wonders out loud. "No, you didn't. I would know, because I was with you 24/7 last week..." Transferring photos for each other, the hundreds of random moments, about the only tangible (if electronic files can be considered tangible) proof that we were there.