SACRE BLEU

The other day I was sitting in the basement of my girlfriend's apartment building, smoking a cigarette and daydreaming about a future point in my life. I was imagining that I was being questioned by the French police about a recent murder. It seemed that I was a suspect in the case because I'd been seen arguing with the woman who'd been killed. The police were asking me how I knew the woman, and I was explaining that I was in the process of writing a book, and it actually wasn't me that knew the murder victim. It was my character who knew her. The book I was writing was about a guy who had multiple personality disorder, and to be as realistic as possible, I had been living as three totally different people. For the past year I'd been living as a lesbian French woman and had taken up a relationship with this now dead woman named Valerie. She had found out that I was actually a man and that I was only acting as a character to write a book. Valerie was, of course, upset and we'd argued at quite an extensive length in the middle of a cafe. That must've been the argument the witness saw. Then I explained to the police that I could not have murdered Valerie, simply due to the fact that it wasn't something my French lesbian character could've done. The daydream was interrupted by another tenant who had come down to the basement to do her laundry. I found myself embarrassed, as if I'd been caught doing something ridiculous or silly. I guess I was. It was fun though.