In Paris at Maggie’s apartment. We manage to drink close to an entire bottle of vodka while casually chatting about recent traumatizing events in Maggie’s life. The phone rings, another dancer, Nico, is on the phone, I start insisting for him to join us. Maggie suggests to pay for his cab ride. We are both drunk and everything sounds like a good idea. Nico eventually appears. In the meantime, I have discovered that Maggie’s fridge is a major French cliché and solely consists in a bottle of Laurent Perrier, camembert and ham. We snack on all the deliciousness and spare the champagne to continue the vodka binge.
Nico arrives and we officially down the bottle. They discuss calling up for drugs. I just sit there, feeling happily dizzy, I retreat into passiveness since I’m drunk and broke. Unsuccessful in their efforts, we all decide to get some sleep. An hour or so later, Maggie wakes me up by pulling the covers off the bed, they have drugs and they want to share. I stumble reluctantly to the sitting room. They offer me a line of coke and some Brittany speciality involving meringue and pralines mysteriously mixed together into quaint micro pyramids. Soon enough we are all high and Maggie comes up with the idea of choreographing a grotesque ballet involving her and Gertrude. She stands up and starts dancing an interpretation of dust and hands me a broom. The idea of mixing Gertrude’s heavy handedness and Maggie’s grace engraves a huge smile on my face.
