I’ve lived outside society before. I’ve told myself I was okay with it; I've even bragged about it. But now that I’m on the outside again, I’m not so sure. I’ve bathed in the warm inner sanctum too long.
I walked past HQ today. That was a bad idea.
I was following a lead in the Latin Quarter when I found myself on Rue St. Jacques, walking toward the river. A few steps more, I was across the Pont St. Michel and on Boulevard du Palais. As soon as I saw the street sign, my heart thunked in my throat, like seeing an old lover after a long time. I should have turned around, headed for the maze of pedestrian streets in the Quartier Latin where a man can lose himself among the throngs. Instead, I turned left, toward 36 Quai des Orfèvres.
It’s one thing to make big talk about feeling apathetic toward my suspension when I’m high above the city in Montmartre, but to stand in front of the very door barred against me? That’s one way to get in touch with my true feelings real quick. Beyond that door were all my friends and colleagues; my team having all that fun without me. My gut burned like I’d swallowed acid.
Shunned. Cast out. Orphaned.
This is what I really felt all those years on the street. And as I walked away from Quai des Orfèvres, the boy inside me cried out—while Luc the man stuffed a cigarette in his mouth and lit up.
I need a drink. At least I’m still allowed in my bar.
