Timothée Chalamet has given us a tiny but poignant glimpse into his isolation lifestyle. Earlier this week, he shared a photo of himself sitting in what appears to be his living room in a pair of hideous magenta jeans.
A few days later, he offered a grainy glimpse into his pantry:
These photos and the wealth of information they contain sent my brain into a tailspin. And it couldn’t help spitting out hypotheticals, mostly around what being in isolation with Timmy might be like.
I can imagine we’d spend our days flipping languidly through his art books while he told me made-up facts about Matisse and Picasso. But it wouldn’t matter because he’d tell me in French, and I don’t really understand French.
And then we’d eat loads of edibles, he’d put on Beautiful Boy, and I’d beg him to turn it off. I’m sure he would, before apologizing and making me tea with honey, to which he would add the entire honey bear and forget the tea bag. Then we’d watch Call Me by Your Name instead, crying and holding hands during the peach scene.
We’d only argue about two things: whether we can wear shoes in the house and Dune, because I would keep trying to talk about it, and he would be evasive. Eventually I would realize that maybe he hasn’t read Dune.
He’d try to distract me by reenacting bits of the Oliver Cromwell biography on his bookshelf, and I’d tell him, “No, I don’t think that’s for you.” I’d hand him The Last Days of the Romanovs instead; he would be pleased, and then make me Easy Mac.
Sigh, ma chérie, if only.
