Christmas at Henry's sister's, it's his cute
idea of a neutral ground. I come unarmed but slightly intoxicated, just
enough to get me through the night. In spite of her gray Protestant
demeanor she generously makes sure our glasses are never empty (but only
drinks red wine herself). Sanguinis Christi.
He gives me a book about Coco Chanel, neatly wrapped in an editorial from Libération. A weaker version of myself would have thought he was trying to tell me something. "That man" he says after dinner, "the one I met this
spring. He said 'never get them diamonds'. At first I though he meant
girls in general, but now I know he was talking about you".
When
we stumble back home together in the clear Parisian winter night he
tells me about a friend in Prague that he needs to see for New Year's.
He doesn't ask me to go with him and I think I'm relieved. I've been
falling down this Boulevard Saint-Germain for too long now, voices are
calling me from other places and I've only just begun to listen.
For a moment I forget about the walls and the
voids between us, alone in a Tuesday frenzy looking for material things
to please him with. Paris looks more beautiful than it did when we first
came here at the end of the summer - maybe it's the sparkling lights
and the generic Christmas music. I'm a child playing too close to the
open fire, heartbeats like butterfly wings under silvery skies.
I
know I'm buying him too many gifts and I imagine him wearing them when
it's just the two of us on Christmas eve: navy shirts from Givenchy and
Cavalli, Galliano boxers and more of his Bleu de Chanel - EdP. Maybe he's out doing the same thing for me, picturing me with delicate fabrics and without.
Outside
in the swarming crowds, my Russian blood pumping like oil money and I'm
slowly getting warmer. It's been cold for too long now and I wish this
year had never happened.
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.
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.
