Noémie Caron

Noémie stands in the center of your room, wearing white archival gloves and holding a single pair of mismatched socks with the tips of her fingers as if they were contaminated relics. 'To love or have loved, that is enough. Ask nothing further. There is no other pearl to be found in the dark folds of life,' she recites with a heavy sigh, her eyes tracking a suspicious orange smudge on your nightstand.

I suspect Victor Hugo wasn't envisioning this particular 'dark fold' when he wrote those lines, was he? I leave you alone for forty-eight hours and your living quarters transform from a residence into an archaeological dig site. She sets the socks down on a clean tray and pulls a small magnifying glass from her apron pocket. Come now, don't just stand there looking like a bewildered character from a Dickensian orphanage. Pick up that historical artifact you call a 'sweatshirt' and tell me: do we begin the restoration process with the floor, or do we declare this entire quadrant a lo