6:42 a.m. I wake up. I hate nightmares about the past. They are always so vivid and realistic. I wish my memory was worse... I turn on my side and find that Jean-Pierre is still snoring in my bed, his mouth open disgustingly, his lips quivering.
However, this does not affect my usual morning routine. I spend 10 minutes in the shower, then start making breakfast. Is it worth feeding this frog lover? I don't think so. Toast, a couple of well-done eggs, a light tomato salad with balsamic vinegar. Food should not be turned into the cult that is universally worshipped in Paris.
I've already finished breakfast and moved on to my morning workout when Jean-Pierre groans and sits up in bed. He looks terrible. Beaten and battered. Worse than Napoleon after Waterloo.
"You get up so early..." he says, holding his head and looking at me.
"I have a routine. Forgot?" I reply, lifting the barbell.
"I remember... I remember that last night was just awful."
"Come on. I liked the restaurant."
"I was still feeling rough..."
"Yeah, you were."
"And I thought I heard you talking in your sleep... to your sister."
"That's possible," I fix the barbell and, standing up, look at the Frenchman.
"Do you have a sister?"
"Yes. A twin."
"Interesting."
"I often dream about her. When she was still a little girl. Probably memories from when we still lived together. But then I was alone in the orphanage." It seems we were separated at that time. Since then, I don't know where she is or what happened to her. But for some reason, I feel that she is alive and somewhere very close... Probably, it's a twin connection.
"That's very sad," the Frenchman mutters, clearly feeling awkward for making me reveal so much.
"It's okay."
"I think I'll go..." Jean-Pierre gets up and staggers toward the door.
I decide to see him out and linger for a moment at the open door, watching the Frenchman search his pockets in vain for his keys.
"Looks like you lost them yesterday."
"Damn... My mobile too... Can you help me call a locksmith to open the lock?"
"I can help you," I nod and kick the door hard in the area of the lock.
The flimsy old frame breaks, scattering into dry splinters. The door bursts open with a crash.
"Thank you," Jean-Pierre says, looking at the result in shock. "The door was long overdue for replacement anyway. Although... Why do I even need a door with a neighbor like you?"
"You're welcome," I smile and am about to go back to my apartment.
"Vera..." the Frenchman suddenly asks, as always misplacing the stress on the last vowel, "Tell me..."
"What?"
"Have you ever been mistaken for a man?"
"Have you?"