It had been a long day. Classes all day long, meeting with a project partner who hadn't done anything at all, preparing and executing a presentation, frustrating telephone calls, awkward conversations, unsuccessful attempts at using the internet to accomplish tasks that have been pending for a long time. All the restaurants and bars with televisions were packed for the game. We walked into one, then another, then another. They all had empty seats - hidden behind a wall, where of course the television wasn't visible. Somehow we found seats which were cramped but still allowed a view. D followed every move with interest. All I wanted was my bed.
And then it arrived. Succulent, glistening with fat, the delicious fragrance wafting towards me before it was even placed on the table. In a bed of lightly dressed salad, accompanied with real potato chips: the Confit de Canard. The meat fell off the bones, the skin was fatty and melted in my mouth. The chips were crunchy but still thick enough to give you a bite. The salad provided a cool and refreshing break. I settled back into my little chair. Suddenly it was so comfortable and warm. The "oooooohs" and "putains" and "allez allez allez" were the calls of camaraderie. I even looked up a few times to see a goal or maybe a foul. I sipped my wine, and felt the tension ease out of my limbs. My eyes grew heavy as I grew sated with the delicate yet hearty confit. I remembered that I had a novel full of beautiful words and a gripping story waiting for me at home. And the day just fell away. And I was left with just this lovely evening.