Saturday, December 13, 2014

Thought of you as everything I've had but couldn't keep

He's in front of the mirror getting ready like it's our first date and we're sixteen dans La Ville-Lumière. I finish his Champagne because he's too busy with his hair and he returns to an empty bottle. "I like you better drunk" he says and slides his hand up my dress, but he does it like a gentleman in cufflinks and a pinstripe suit.

The last days of this year have felt like the end of the world, but I guess they always do. My vision is blurred, I can't imagine anything beyond December but with him there's no immediate need to pretend. Walking these streets in daylight I feel like screaming till the air in my lungs is wasted, but when the sun sets I put on something black and he comes home and we drift away together, even after what he said to me a week or so ago.

I don't drink to forget because there's still too much I want to remember. I drink because the world and this life we're living makes a little bit more sense when spinning itself out of focus before our pale blue eyes.

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Monday, December 8, 2014

Art Nouveau and other stories

We started talking again this weekend but not much remains to be said. "What's your New Year's resolution" he asks vapidly, "I've been meaning to pick up smoking myself". I don't have one but I lie and tell him I'm going to write a book. He nods discreetly, right hand firm around a highball glass of Rye Whiskey.

Insomniac nights are becoming a habit, the closest I am to a ritual. I wander these Saint Germain streets long after he falls asleep and far in to the early morning. Last week I met her in the same place at the exact same time from Monday to Friday: the ethereal woman from an Alphonse Mucha poster. Dressed in burgundy and black, she walks lightly as if in a painless dream and leaves traces of l'Air du Temps on the air as she passes by.

I'm back in bed undressed before he wakes up, he asks me if I slept and I tell him that I'm too much in love. I guess it's a little cruel but I just can't help myself.

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Sunday, November 30, 2014

There's a crack in everything

If nothing more than November ends tonight I'm not sure we'll be alive in the morning. Every last trace of tenderness was lost in this week's morbid silence, ten words or less between us in seven days. He doesn't sleep, at least not when I'm watching.

Everywhere around me is Christmas and lights and crowds of people, I try to absorb whatever's left of warmth inside Lafayette on Haussmann and the chaos. It doesn't work, he calls me but hangs up before I get the chance to answer, his quiet breaths still just a fading memory.

Three hours to December and if nothing changes we might still wake up tomorrow. I never meant to hurt him, it just happened along the way like so many of the things I learned not to regret. My fragile heart is almost empty now, it's an overdose and a painless way of slowly dying before the winter and the snow.

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Monday, November 24, 2014

Turn around and say good morning to the night

This is what he says:

"I met someone at a restaurant in Nice, or was it Antibes? Never mind. It was spring, I saw him sitting alone at another table and somehow we started talking. He was from California but felt he needed to get away as often as possible, just like us. I told him about you. No, I told him about a girl that was coming to spend the summer with me. I told him she was from New York and had a heart as black as midnight.

I described little things I loved about her, how she bites her nails when she's nervous and only wears matching light colored underwear regardless of the season. I told him about the Rose Bar at Gramercy and her morbid obsession with butterflies.

He listened without asking questions, somehow I got the feeling he knew this restless girl I was talking about. I got the feeling he had met you, that he had spent a great deal of his life close to you and knew precisely what I was going to say next. That he had seen that exact same depth in your eyes, those eyes I get so hopelessly lost in whenever I try to understand what you're daydreaming of.

We spoke for an hour, I spoke for an hour and he listened. He did this thing with his fingertips, like he was drawing something on the tablecloth. Or writing perhaps. Suddenly he excused himself and got up, told me it was very nice to meet me and started to walk away. I wouldn't have said anything if it wasn't for his last words, but they've been echoing like thunder in my sleep ever since you came here. I can't stop thinking about it and I'm afraid I'll go mad if I don't tell you. Or ask you.

He was walking away when he stopped, hand in his pocket, running the other hand through his hair as if deciding whether to turn around or not. He did, and he said: 'Tell her I forgave her a long time ago'.

With all the love I feel for you now, with every beat of my broken heart I ask you: what did you do to him?"

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Monday, November 17, 2014

Whatever makes her happy

We go out late on a Sunday because the walls are closing in and we need to escape somewhere so we dress up in our blackest clothes with traces of silver and we find a place to breathe where there's music and dancing and smoke and we're high on a little bit of everything so the air catches fire with every careless beat of our broken hearts and these flashes of light come less often now because we're not as young as we used to be but it doesn't matter 'cause his eyes are glimmering like stars in a January night sky and I'm his Daisy or Karenina and they start playing hip hop right after Boys Don't Cry and we hate it equally much so we fall out in to the street where taxi cabs run us over and we're almost caught by the police but get away together down in the dark by the river banks and we're back at the hotel just when the autumn sun comes up over Paris and I fall asleep somehow while he's inside me and I dream about stolen diamonds and when he calls me in the morning it is to say that he has something that he needs to tell me and he should have done it a long time ago.

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