[ You'd think shopping for a four-day Christmas stay in Paris on the 23rd would take forever and be altogether hellish but in fact, what ends up stealing most of early afternoon hours isn't shopping for clothes or bathroom supplies.
So, he leaves his newly-brought trolley along with six bags of shopping in Claude's living room and ten minutes later, he's in the shower, standing beneath the spray and trying to get the trembling in his muscles to stop. The warmth of the water helps. From experience, he knows that his body will stop complaining soon enough, so long as he doesn't get uptight and tense about it - until then, he simply stands there, head bowed and water rushing down from above. The shower stall isn't as small as one might fear from the size of a typical, Parisian apartment in the Latin Quarters. The tiles are salmon-pink and consequently, the room feels... inviting, in its own right. Warm, like Claude himself.
His own bathroom back in City is at least five times as large. It's black with silver finishes and looks like a place nobody lives.
Eyes falling shut, he forces his shoulders to relax. ]
no subject
As he makes his way back to Claude's apartment, he passes by a small Christmas market in the Square René-Viviani, the Notre Dame with its cranes and scaffolding a towering backdrop to the trees, strung with fairy lights, and the small stalls lining the square. Intent on simply grabbing a cup of freshly-made coffee to stave off the cold, Jean Louis ends up looking over the goods of one, particular antique vendor, an old man selling off some of his family heirlooms. Rather you, he explains, than some greedy fool hiding behind the counter of a pawn shop. Oh, don't worry, Jean Louis replies back, I'm plenty greedy as it is but all the same, they fall into conversation and after half an hour, he's left with a small trinket for Claude and a shoulder so stiff from the cold and from sitting that all he can really think about when he gets back to Claude's is getting himself out of his clothes (from yesterday, incidentally - disgusting, at this point) and grabbing a shower.
So, he leaves his newly-brought trolley along with six bags of shopping in Claude's living room and ten minutes later, he's in the shower, standing beneath the spray and trying to get the trembling in his muscles to stop. The warmth of the water helps. From experience, he knows that his body will stop complaining soon enough, so long as he doesn't get uptight and tense about it - until then, he simply stands there, head bowed and water rushing down from above. The shower stall isn't as small as one might fear from the size of a typical, Parisian apartment in the Latin Quarters. The tiles are salmon-pink and consequently, the room feels... inviting, in its own right. Warm, like Claude himself.
His own bathroom back in City is at least five times as large. It's black with silver finishes and looks like a place nobody lives.
Eyes falling shut, he forces his shoulders to relax. ]