Dear Fabienne,
You lived across the hall from me in the foyer. You grew up in the Pyrennes in Perpignan, a fishing village. You came back with me to the American hospital in Neuilly, because I had forgotten my passport there. Together we got it.You were an artist. I wish I could remember your last name so I could look around and see some of your work.There was a plane strike for over three weeks and we lived on the same tea bag for three weeks, as we had no money. Walking back from the Metro one day, you and I were so weak and hungry that we decided to go to Prix Unique, where a little bit like Oliver Twist and his gang, we stole a carton of chocolate milk. Chocolate milk will never taste that good again, Fabienne.
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