The #5 Waldo House Series – Episode#1 : The Finale

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After the break up, we didn’t see or hear each other for 6 months.

I purely and simply disappeared on her on January 1st, 2014.

We had cheered to the New Year together.

I spent the first day of the year in bed in a fairly poor state. I got up in the evening and put all her belongings/gifts/memories in a big box which I donated to the street.

The day after, I organised an escape to New York for two months. I wish I hadn’t come back from this trip.

In June, I wrote her a letter to tell her what I had been up to all this time.

I was loving her, still. She was regularly visiting me in my dreams.

I found out much later that we randomly happened to be at the same place, at the same time, on the day of our 4th meeting anniversary. We had already been off touch for weeks, when I bumped into her best friend at a tube station where I never go. Months later I was told that she was there too, waiting at another exit.

She wrote me back.

We met on a Saturday, the first day of Summer. She picked me up at the tube station of her new neighbourhood. I had no clue where she had moved.

At the top of an endless escalator, there she was, exactly as I had left her.

We spoke for 12 hours that day. And we spoke for 12 hours the following Saturday.

We were respectively more ourselves without each other, but also left with an unexplainable void that wouldn’t go away.

All our pores were sweating the chemical remnants of how much we had adored each other, long before love had turned into violence.

My sister summarised it well: “Il y a de l’amour dans le gaz”. (Untranslatable).

We tried to be friends for 4 weeks. Saturday to Saturday.

Many things happened, it was all exhaustingly bouncing, as if we were dancing an endless tango.

I saw her for the last time on the 19th of July, one week after my birthday. The day after I was told that my brother almost died. I was pale and spaced out.

Late at night, she dragged me to a bar with live music. I was somewhere else, battling the multiple waves of shock that had been assailing me for months.

We smoked and drank.

I told her: “I love you, still. We won’t be together again, right?” I love making questions when I know the answer. Mantra for miracles.

She didn’t say yes or no, as usual. Just maintaining me in that sentimental fog.

Most ironic is that I am the one who left.

We stayed till 4 or 5 in the morning before looking for a way to reach our respective home. I needed to collapse under the eyes of no one.

She wanted to walk me to my bus. I just wanted her to get the fuck away. I begged her to get into a cab, which she finally did.

When she slammed the door of the car, a feeling of relief triggered in my brain.

Dawn was breaking and I burst into tears on the street.

I instinctively knew it was the last time I would ever see her.

That’s the last time I ever saw her.

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The #5 Waldo House Series – Episode#2 : The Particles

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We lived at #5 Waldo House for 26 months. That’s 793 nights, because 2012 was a leap year.

#5 Waldo House was the cement between us. We had a very domestic relationship, maybe because the outside world was kinda hostile. Our families were not exactly supportive, so we were like two little birdies in their nest. We never managed to be a “social” couple, to build bridges with the external world like any sensible adults do after some time.

We lived on our own island. London NW10.

So much importance we granted to this flat. We were in fusion with each other and our fusion was in fusion with our home. So yeah, that was a lot of fusion.

After a while, we were speaking our own language, the “Freeklish” (for French/Greek/English), with our own vocabulary, idioms and declinations. People not familiar with us would miss out when we were talking to each other.

We loved our daily life. It has never been boring, or routinely, or mechanical. Not one day. We did everything in excess, laughing, fighting, fucking and being dumb.

When we decided to dynamite our couple, we carried on our day to day habits in the exact same manner, and even more intensely, knowing that the countdown had started.

Till the last days, we were like: “We love living together so much!” So fucking stupid. Such a fucking disaster.

Anyway, it had to be done.

It all happened quickly at the end. I could barely realise what it really meant. Packing boxes. Splitting the things we got together. Nothing too original I presume. You’ll tell me that everyone has been or will be there at some point. And it is true. I am not putting my drama above anyone else’s.

On the day, the 21 September 2013, I didn’t even have a moment to say good bye to the house. I was already carried away in the uncertainty of the next chapter.

Weird thing is, at that precise moment, I was barely sad. I was focusing on the field of anticipated excitement ahead.

We wanted to leave something from our months of happiness between those walls, so we threw at the top of the boiler the cap of the bottle of champagne that we drank for our 2 years together. It has an inscription on it: ” ∆ + Σ – 26/02/2012″.

Maybe it is still there?

I wonder what is left of us at #5 Waldo House. The walls must be absorbing the arguments and laughter of another couple, and so goes life.

I can’t help thinking sometimes – not too often – about all the particles of us left in the atmosphere, in the walls, in the ugly beige curtains that kept falling off, in the carpet. They have all witnessed so much love and drama.

Do you think that some physical particles may really still remain?

Particles of the bad words, the awful moments, and of the I-love-yous in every languages we knew, particles of all the orgasms we exchanged.

During the 4 weeks that we failed to become friends, months later, we went to see #5 Waldo House again one evening. Just to kill our ghosts together. We were curious to catch the sight of who was occupying our kingdom now. We hanged out outside the building for a little while, tried to stare through the window.

The lampshade had changed. That was a good thing. That’s the only clue we ever got.