Thursday, January 14, 2016

The stars look very different today

I escaped to Florence and have been hiding here for fourteen days like a deserter. I went to the airport without packing while he was out buying us breakfast, turned off my phone and got on a plane to see S for New Year's. I haven't checked my Facebook or e-mails since, afraid of what he might have written (or not written).

His absence is physical more than anything, I made space for other memories to form while I'm away, yet I can't stop myself from wondering what he will do to me eventually. Will I even see him again, if I ever go back to Paris? Will he spend months tracking me down, just so he can hurt me the way I deserve to be hurt?

I thought that leaving him like this would make me feel something but it doesn't, not even the fear excites me, not just yet. Maybe if I see him again I'll know, I want to see him again, I need to see him. I need to see him again. I do.


























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Sunday, December 27, 2015

Without any fear

I used to love Christmas, now it just reminds me of hospitals.

We celebrated together, the two of us alone. He got me jewelry from Dolce & Gabbana, I got him that splatter-print Balenciaga sweater he wanted. We took a late walk through empty streets around Saint-Germain-des-Prés, I had too much wine and Absinthe and he carried me to bed and whispered French lullabies in my ear.

The thought of spending New Year's with his sister like he wants sickens me. I've managed to avoid her all autumn, he knows exactly how to make me feel guilty about it. S asked me to come to Florence, I want to go but don't know how to tell him. He looks so innocent asleep beside me, his warm pale skin almost glowing in the dark. It would be so easy to end it all.




Tuesday, December 15, 2015

Let's embrace the point of no return

I went through his coat pockets looking for cigarettes and found something he wrote on the back of a restaurant tab (oysters at Régis). He wrote whenever we're out together I know she'll eventually disappear from me. I go to the bathroom and leave her at the table and I know that when I come back she'll be gone like smoke or the memory of a dream. I feel it the same way every time and every time my heart breaks when I turn round the corner and find that she's still there.

Other than that, I'm still somewhere in between flying and falling.


Sunday, November 22, 2015

Les jours tristes

I used to hate Paris, but it might have had more to do with him than with anything else. I somehow learned to appreciate it, to look past the flaws and the inconsistencies. I learned to feel at home in Saint Germain, to walk down Boulevard Raspail not feeling like a stranger or a misfit. I've always been weak that way, restless and dissatisfied, looking more in to to the future than in to the past.

It's not that I'm over it now, I just found a way of dealing with everything that used to hurt me. When I drink too much Champagne I still think it's a bad thing, that I've turned in to my mother, a careless person unable to feel anything other than emptiness and apathy.

The shootings last week reminded me that it isn't true, that I can still feel sadness and pain and despair, and as cynical as it sounds, it makes me happy. I remember what it was like once, when I was younger and not as badly damaged, and I know that the pieces of those days are still infused in my bloodstream, hidden somewhere deep beneath the skin and inside the heart.

I hurt just like anyone else, a week later, a week of roller-coaster emotions and scattered thoughts. I'm still here, I'm alive, I'm trying to go on living. I love you.


Sunday, November 1, 2015

All I want is you

For Halloween we're invited to a party in Montmartre, friends from his Sorbonne class that I've never even heard of. He needs me to dress up as the most intimidating thing imaginable: "An H&M girl".

We're on our way out when l tell him I can't be around people. It comes over me like vertigo, he doesn't ask why and I think I love him for it. I turn off the lights in his bedroom and pretend he's never coming back. If he died I'd have nothing.

I fall asleep some time after midnight and dream about motorways before he wakes me with his Champagne breath on my cold cheek. His clothes smell of women's perfume, soft, deep ruby lipstick marks on the collar of his Givenchy shirt (the one with the two black stars). He lies down beside me and puts his hand between my legs where I'm still warm.

If I died he'd have nothing.






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