Saturday, March 1, 2014

Haussmann chronicles

His sister returns from a two-week trip across the Atlantic and the temperature drops in a heartbeat. We're alone in the living room when she leans over me to reach for a book, her warm agitated breath in my ear and she whispers: "he doesn't love you".

I never thought that he did because in that one aspect we're exactly alike, him and I. Somewhere along the way the lights faded and the fluctuations evened out. We can't remember when it happened but it's only in our dreams that we recall what it felt like to be sad, to be happy, to hate or to love. We cling to each other because no one else would ever fully understand.

Later we're at Printemps, browsing through Tisci's SS14 collection. I close my eyes and run my fingertips across the sheer silk and the satin but everything feels exactly the same. I turn to him.

"Your sister hates me".

"No" he says, his voice a silent snowfall. "She hates herself".

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