Almost a year ago, a boy-friend – at times with a dash, most of the time, without – gave me two Japanese manuals.
A textbook and a workbook. They were both in one of those Muji clear pockets I love so much.
On a summer day of two-thousand and five, I remember driving on those small roads in between Biot and Valbonne. With something old, something new, something borrowed and something blue*.