L 's hair was cropped perfect and copper-tinted at the C d O, where she ordered us little beers, against the ice-hail-rain going sideways in the wind. On the table for talking was: independence, work, postgraduate degrees, people we know. Next to that table was a notice board and, on it, a thick chunk of posters advertising events held in the city. With each poster, the room becomes smaller but the world, and its things, larger. The next time I saw L was that summer. Through thirty-six degrees we swam in the canal, and worried, half-heartedly, about the risk of sewage runoff from the previous night’s heavy rain. We all napped on the pontoon, bit off chunks of one cucumber and drank pils from paper cups. Between those two visits to the city of A, to L and other friends, how many millimetres had been given over to paper at C d O, and everywhere else? What paper had been in both the minds of L and I over that multi-month break, if any at all?