“All our final decisions are made in a frame of mind that is not going to last” - Marcel Proust.
A strange sensation comes over him, which he hesitates to give the grave, but beautiful name, sadness.
Bustling through the airport, armpits welling from the rush. Ticket in hand, a bouncing body on his back, loud calls on speakers near. He toyed with the idea of missing the flight, to stay. He stops.
The flight attendant tearing the tickets beckoned him at the gate.
He handed his ticket.
‘Merci’, he mumbled.
“Oh, eh, Mr Logman, I just understand that there is some message for you from the, eh, main desk. By Gate Six. You must check there.”
Probably his Parisian landlord. The government. The passport control. No, his mother had died. Or his sister was maimed in an unforeseeable bear attack near Sorrento. His father had been shot with a potato gun and lost too much blood as the potato penetrated the skin in a freakish way, and exploded. The potato exploded!? No, that’s unbelievable, he would say. And they would tell him that stranger things have happened, and that this father, who was Irish, had a personal debt to pay with the potato manufacturers and this was a premeditated incident. He would cry and never eat potatoes again. He’d even tattoo his body with slogans of hate for the potato manufacturer and strip outside state buildings in Ireland to make his point known. Only to be locked up for indecent exposure, to be served mashed potato and sausage for the next six months in a cell. He’d remark how strange irony is, but the subject would barely be mentioned in the journal he would keep.
He was at Gate 6 now.
‘I’m Mr Logman’, pointing toward the other gate, ‘a lady there told me you have a message for me..?’
“Yes sir. You cannot board this flight. We made a terrible mistake. I am sorry. If you could please wait over by the smoking lounge, someone will be with you in a short time to explain and get you another plane. But of course, you will be made up for it, of course.”
He was tired, and quite drunk. He had been swigging from his hip flask since he left her, standing in the dark and baron staircase. Fatigue overcame him and soon his eyes were limp.
‘Wake up, Mr Logman, wake up. We have someone here to explain the situation.’
“Ok, ok, I am…”
They kissed for what seemed like hours. Spinning, her knees bent and in the air as he hugged her. Shins parallel to the ground. It made sense now. Shins parallel, bodies swinging, knees bent and her.
It was her fault that he made the best mistake of his life.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Butterfly Effect (lame name, i know)
Her mother’s ruby red lipstick was missing again, but Michelle never strayed far. Like every summer afternoon, Michelle’s slender, tanned calves were propelling her closer to the butterflies leading the garden chase. But Michelle always returned for dinner, seated at the top of the table, leaving red stains on her mother’s good napkins.
Michelle’s habitual acts were her own, but her snippets of knowledge were Jerry’s – the next door neighbour. Six years her elder, Jerry was the burger flipper who liked to smoke his mum’s menthols on the balcony once all bedroom lights had been clapped off. It was Jerry who taught Michelle about mortality.
According to Jerry, Molly, the beloved cat placed in a cattery for two weeks, died from ‘sad head’. The separation led to anxiety and depression and the cat was found dead in its cage by a nice lady named Betsy, who assured Michelle that her cat loved her dearly, and just went to sleep awhile.
‘Sad head’ was not the only morbid thing Michelle learned from her pubescent teacher. One day Michelle announced to Jerry that she was visiting the zoo later that afternoon, and was particularly excited about the butterfly enclosure.
“Oh cool… but be careful not to touch them! They will die”, Jerry cautioned.
“From ‘sad head’? Like Molly?”
“No, no, silly, from ‘heavy wings’. When butterflies are touched by humans, it makes their wings heavy. They then get sick in the head and die. Understand?”
“Yes”, Michelle had nodded, understanding very well.
Jerry wasn’t to know, and I’ve told Michelle’s parents this dozens of times. Michelle had been struck down by a sadness which had no fake name. Her tanned calves had been touched by the old and swollen hands of Mr Griffiths, and it was weighing her down. Her head must have been too heavy, too, because on that day, when her mother’s lipstick went missing again, her parents found her ruby red lips pursed against the side of the white bathtub. Her body limp.
Unfortunately, unlike butterflies, Michelle’s legs could not take her from harm and away from a fatal human touch. No, Michelle’s parents lost a daughter that day, one who would have grown up to use ellipses at the end of every story…
Michelle’s habitual acts were her own, but her snippets of knowledge were Jerry’s – the next door neighbour. Six years her elder, Jerry was the burger flipper who liked to smoke his mum’s menthols on the balcony once all bedroom lights had been clapped off. It was Jerry who taught Michelle about mortality.
According to Jerry, Molly, the beloved cat placed in a cattery for two weeks, died from ‘sad head’. The separation led to anxiety and depression and the cat was found dead in its cage by a nice lady named Betsy, who assured Michelle that her cat loved her dearly, and just went to sleep awhile.
‘Sad head’ was not the only morbid thing Michelle learned from her pubescent teacher. One day Michelle announced to Jerry that she was visiting the zoo later that afternoon, and was particularly excited about the butterfly enclosure.
“Oh cool… but be careful not to touch them! They will die”, Jerry cautioned.
“From ‘sad head’? Like Molly?”
“No, no, silly, from ‘heavy wings’. When butterflies are touched by humans, it makes their wings heavy. They then get sick in the head and die. Understand?”
“Yes”, Michelle had nodded, understanding very well.
Jerry wasn’t to know, and I’ve told Michelle’s parents this dozens of times. Michelle had been struck down by a sadness which had no fake name. Her tanned calves had been touched by the old and swollen hands of Mr Griffiths, and it was weighing her down. Her head must have been too heavy, too, because on that day, when her mother’s lipstick went missing again, her parents found her ruby red lips pursed against the side of the white bathtub. Her body limp.
Unfortunately, unlike butterflies, Michelle’s legs could not take her from harm and away from a fatal human touch. No, Michelle’s parents lost a daughter that day, one who would have grown up to use ellipses at the end of every story…
A Brief Case
She would remember when she started loving him – upon receipt of a locked suitcase in the comfort of her psychiatrist’s armchair.
What use was this object that her doctor gave her? The briefcase that was given as a gift by a man, another patient, to her doctor. Surely he was a strange man, a man with a locked and empty burgundy briefcase. “Burgundy”, she thought, “strange man”.
Re-entering her apartment for the fourth time that morning – milk, flower picking for bedroom mantel, forgotten mobile, back from shrink – she placed the briefcase in a neutral corner, of her neutrally decorated bedroom. Nothing ever bothered her, this short-haired beauty, the one who has bought milk, picked a flower and forgot her mobile every morning of her short adult life. But this burgundy obstruction, no, burden, had too many implications. Yes, she liked that name for it – the burgundy burden. This new object meant mystery and intrigue and in her busy morning routine there was surely no room for it.
It must be opened, its mystery revealed and consequently mocked. Surely it was empty, and she would be disappointed. If indeed it was empty, she would return to her doctor the following week bitter; only to be lectured on the ‘beautiful briefcase’s philosophical purpose’.
After 14 minutes of mathematics to work out the number of possible combinations, she made a rare afternoon trip to the shops for a tub of icecream and chocolate. She was in for the long haul, this busy, grown-up and loveless lady.
Hours passed and lists were compiled of all the possible annoying phrases she would blurt out in her next session with the psychiatrist for his placing such a burden on her.
Finally, just as she began to sing along to ‘No Surprises’, the briefcase clicked open. She toyed with idea of dragging the saga out another few hours – to make it 8 in total – but it was nightfall, and she really did have to get to bed, so that she could start her busy day tomorrow. And so – without any emotive lighting – she opened it.
Inside this burgundy briefcase was a poem, or was it a sonnet? ‘Fuck English classes’, she mumbled as she read:
When a butterfly enters the world briefly
No one knows how long it will flutter.
When a butterfly dies,
No one else can grasp the ensuing sadness.
Things fall from the sky everyday
From trees and animals and swings.
Though, there is no sound that resonates
Like something of yours fallen.
No roses or tulips can make well
The sounds and fall you have heard.
But lie on your bed and think,
I always knew that things could fall -
Even butterflies.
Suddenly she had so many questions. She would write a note back to him and ask her shrink to pass on the briefcase. He would know the code and would find it. And so the chain would continue, until finally she would make her doctor break his medical code of silence and give her this mysterious man’s address. She would arrive one morning with milk and a flower for his mantel. The door would be answered and he would appear in nothing but a towel. His hair short and beard rebellious. His name would be Ben. They would get matching tattoos on their wrists that summer and lay together on her un-made bed after a morning of passionate sex. Her tattoo would mirror his, and would read 013/310 across the two wrists when placed side by side. They would speak of trips to Paris and exciting adventures involving bubbles. All the while they would wear the code that unlocked her burgundy briefcase.
What use was this object that her doctor gave her? The briefcase that was given as a gift by a man, another patient, to her doctor. Surely he was a strange man, a man with a locked and empty burgundy briefcase. “Burgundy”, she thought, “strange man”.
Re-entering her apartment for the fourth time that morning – milk, flower picking for bedroom mantel, forgotten mobile, back from shrink – she placed the briefcase in a neutral corner, of her neutrally decorated bedroom. Nothing ever bothered her, this short-haired beauty, the one who has bought milk, picked a flower and forgot her mobile every morning of her short adult life. But this burgundy obstruction, no, burden, had too many implications. Yes, she liked that name for it – the burgundy burden. This new object meant mystery and intrigue and in her busy morning routine there was surely no room for it.
It must be opened, its mystery revealed and consequently mocked. Surely it was empty, and she would be disappointed. If indeed it was empty, she would return to her doctor the following week bitter; only to be lectured on the ‘beautiful briefcase’s philosophical purpose’.
After 14 minutes of mathematics to work out the number of possible combinations, she made a rare afternoon trip to the shops for a tub of icecream and chocolate. She was in for the long haul, this busy, grown-up and loveless lady.
Hours passed and lists were compiled of all the possible annoying phrases she would blurt out in her next session with the psychiatrist for his placing such a burden on her.
Finally, just as she began to sing along to ‘No Surprises’, the briefcase clicked open. She toyed with idea of dragging the saga out another few hours – to make it 8 in total – but it was nightfall, and she really did have to get to bed, so that she could start her busy day tomorrow. And so – without any emotive lighting – she opened it.
Inside this burgundy briefcase was a poem, or was it a sonnet? ‘Fuck English classes’, she mumbled as she read:
When a butterfly enters the world briefly
No one knows how long it will flutter.
When a butterfly dies,
No one else can grasp the ensuing sadness.
Things fall from the sky everyday
From trees and animals and swings.
Though, there is no sound that resonates
Like something of yours fallen.
No roses or tulips can make well
The sounds and fall you have heard.
But lie on your bed and think,
I always knew that things could fall -
Even butterflies.
Suddenly she had so many questions. She would write a note back to him and ask her shrink to pass on the briefcase. He would know the code and would find it. And so the chain would continue, until finally she would make her doctor break his medical code of silence and give her this mysterious man’s address. She would arrive one morning with milk and a flower for his mantel. The door would be answered and he would appear in nothing but a towel. His hair short and beard rebellious. His name would be Ben. They would get matching tattoos on their wrists that summer and lay together on her un-made bed after a morning of passionate sex. Her tattoo would mirror his, and would read 013/310 across the two wrists when placed side by side. They would speak of trips to Paris and exciting adventures involving bubbles. All the while they would wear the code that unlocked her burgundy briefcase.
Cinq-a-Sept (First Short Story)
It was a Wednesday and Wil was sick of writing. He had gone to the street market in search of mouldy cheese and inspiration, a canvas bag swaying on his forearm. She had seemed foreign, like him, fingering courgettes and apples, smiling, but never buying. He had followed her through rows of home-made cotton shawls, rotisseries, and piles of orange skins until she spun and they collided. Caught and speechless, his eyes focused on her chest, envisioning her showering, making savoury crepes and stealing from faceless corporations in the name of anti-globalisation. This was the first time he smelt Sofiane.
Everything moved more quickly in Paris, he noticed. Dogs and their owners spent no time admiring the small parks that dotted the city and economised walking time by shitting on the footpath, taxis went as quickly down six-lane boulevards as they did small laneways and baristas had no lavish routine when serving coffee, distributing espressos with the flick of a wrist. Tourists who hesitated when ordering at a patisserie were shunted, often removing themselves to observe the procession. Wil would have been intimidated if not for Sofiane; but he was one of them now, by association. A little part of him now regretted moving in with her after such a short time.
Sofiane worked at the local Ed Supermarket on Boulevard Richard Lenoir. She was from Lyon and had never finished the final semester of her degree in Art History. She ate with her mouth open, and had a birthmark on the upper part of her left arm that Wil had named Shelley, as the skin was two-toned and coarse. Her parents owned a military and aviation bookshop in the same quarter as her grandmother’s boulangerie and her feet swelled in summer, meaning their closet was full of footwear that hibernated until the picnic weather arrived.
She was well traveled and a passive animal rights activist. She ignored Wil’s contention that the modern France lacked the culture and sophistication for which it was renowned. This was often a topic of argument as it was the misconception responsible for Wil’s moving to Paris. He had pictured finding inspiration for the male protagonist of his novel, Nico, in the city’s artists and philosophers, and those of the ‘indie’ music scene. Wil wondered if Picasso had drawn pigeons at the same canal where he took Polaroids, and if the drawings had always been good. He felt quite sure he’d never finish the novel with the brilliant title, but he would see plenty more breasts on TV. He told Sofiane that she was the only reason he stayed.
After lunch, Wil ran a bath, soaking his underwear in the warm water near his feet. He was thinking about Melbourne when the front door clicked over and Sofiane called to him. Their apartment was small, and Wil could hear the sound of plastic bags from the kitchen and hoped that she’d bought him some beer. The noise stopped and she appeared suddenly. She undressed and they made love in the now cold water, shivering in near silence. Their only disruption was the chattering of teeth and the squeak of wet skin slipping against the stained porcelain. Neither climaxed and he held her still body until he was afraid that they’d both catch a cold. He carried her from the bath in his arms and wrapped her naked in their duvet. Wil kissed her forehead and let her dream; he hoped it was a good dream, one filled with drawings of birds, high-waisted jeans and the love letters she wished he wrote her. She breathed deeply, occasionally gasping as if being examined with a cold stethoscope. Wil crossed Sofiane’s arms over her stomach and watched her until she fell silent.
Sofiane’s father died that night, of cancer. Her mother called in the early morning, explaining the cause and the reasons for him keeping his terminal illness a secret. ‘He’d been sick for months’, her mother explained. ‘He wasn’t sorry for not telling you’. Sofiane told Wil about the last kiss she remembers giving her father and the time he broke his leg skiing when she was eight. She would leave for Lyon in the morning. Sofiane told Wil that he didn’t have to go with her, so he didn’t. In the morning he lied about loving her from the warmth of their bed, but didn’t get up to see her off.
Later that afternoon, on the metro home from Oberkampf, Wil took out his earphones and studied a girl worthy of being his female protagonist, Julienne. He quickly wrote notes on the back of a discarded leaflet:
‘Her left eye narrows into a squint, and she is either plotting or trying to find the bit of apple peel in her molars. Everyone can be more graceful if they need to be. If she had known someone was watching, her eyes would have remained full, and open, but she hadn’t’.
She got off at Galleries LaFayette and he followed her; she stopped at a café, so he ordered a coffee.
‘She put her hand on her hip, and made a diamond shape that went the length of her elbow, into the curve of her torso, and back again. His eyes traced the shape, and when he looked up her hoop eyes met his. They bore the softness of a childhood loss, maybe her mother. When Nico was catching the metro home the boy opposite played with a rubix cube, and he thought of her’.
The girl walked past Wil, and no scent lingered behind her. He scrunched the leaflet into his coat pocket and chased after her.
“Excusez-moi, excusez-moi”. She stopped a few metres away. “Would you like to get a drink?” Wil asked in French.
He took her to ZeroZero on Rue Amelot, where he knew the bartender and a few of the regulars. They had five or six drinks, exchanged numbers and addresses, and went home; no kiss, no sex. Wil made out like he wanted to be friends. Her name was Alexi, but everything about her was Julienne. He went home and wrote.
Wil called Sofiane when he couldn’t sleep that night:
“How are you feeling?”
“Not well. My mother is very upset. I think I will stay here a few more days.”
“Ok. Do you think you’ll be home by Monday?”
“I don’t know, Wil!” Sofiane replied angrily.
“Ok, I’m sorry. I’m just no good at…”
“I know. I know. I’m sorry, I’m just annoyed. Mother and her friends have been cooking all day, and drinking wine, and asking about you.”
“What things have they been asking?”
“Nothing, really. Don’t worry”, she giggled. “I love you”.
“Me too, biz”.
“See you, kiss kiss”.
It was Saturday, and Wil went to a flea market with Alexi in mind. He had texted her that morning and they arranged to meet at La Bastille to get dinner. Wil sifted through piles of junk, and made several purchases. Among them were old photographs to paste into his scrapbook, and two rusted bikes. He spent all afternoon scraping away rust, lubing chains, tuning gears, tightening cranks and putting on new handlebar tape. When he was finished he showered, and thought about Alexi. He put on his only shirt, a pair of winklepickers and three squirts of cologne, grabbed the two bikes by the head stems and wheeled them to La Bastille.
When he arrived, Alexi looked surprised. Her smile was both of excitement and disbelief. She did not protest or declare her incompetence as a cyclist. She was even content to follow a foreigner and stranger, through the streets of her city. As they rode along the footpath side-by-side, Wil could not help glancing over at the smooth thighs exposed by her short shirt and the small ears poking through her long brown hair. She laughed when he nearly hit a pole, flattered that she was such a distraction. Wil reminded himself that this was almost purely research. Julienne was developing, but he needed more time. He needed to know her intricacies. Her favourite tea, colour, poet and aperitif.
They dismounted and ate icecream by the canal. Wil liked the way she ate her icecream. Her licks were not tentative and she never focused on a specific area. She worked relentlessly around the cone, blending colours and flavours until all that hung from her top lip was a small crunchy stalactite. Wil found Alexi refreshing, but he would not make Julienne as beautiful. Julienne would have smaller eyes and no fringe. She would have freckles that looked more like splotches and no distinguishable smell.
“Why are you staring at me?” Alexi asked in French.
“Sorry…” He replied, shaking his head.
She kissed him. Wil’s icecream fell onto the ground as his hand grasped the back of her neck. A boy nearby poked his head from around the cover of his book, and watched for a while. The moment was so clichéd that Wil was almost certain the boy would be reading Shakespeare and not Rushdie.
They rode home quickly and Wil was impressed by her speed. She weaved past walkers and bins, turning back and giggling at him. He rode faster and caught her, laughing and jeering. Outside the apartment block, Wil dismounted and watched Alexi ride small circles around him. A minute past and Wil was already excited by her seduction.
“Do you think I’m funny…?”, she teased.
“Yes”.
“Sexy?”
“Very”.
Content with his replies, her legs slowed to a stop, and pulled one slowly over the top tube of her bike, exposing a flash of white.
Wil messed up the code to the building several times and her hand was already in his pants. Before they reached the front door, Wil paused, confirming the motives for what he was doing. He closed the door behind him and did a scan of the room for any evidence of Sofiane. He hadn’t thought of her in days. None of her clothes were in sight, and they never put up any photographs. The only telling sign was the smell of coconut on her pillow. He flipped it over, and made love to Julienne.
Wil woke to the sound of her humming. Coffee was already brewing on the stovetop, and Alexi looked watchfully over eggs in the fry pan. She cooked topless and so would Julienne. Wil approached her from behind and grabbed her waist, she kept cooking. He looked over her shoulder, and saw the eggs.
“Alexi, I don’t eat…” he stopped mid-sentence. He never ate eggs, they were Sofiane’s. “I don’t eat them unless they’re runny”.
“D’accord”.
They ate in silence, Alexi chewing and staring, Wil gulping with eyes closed.
After breakfast they took the metro to the Luxembourg gardens. They held hands and walked along the gravel, content, until Wil’s phone rang. He saw the caller ID, and pressed ‘silence’.
“Who was that?”
“Some asshole.”
Alexi took Wil to a trendy mosque near the catacombs, where revolutionaries met in the war, she said, and then browsed at a second-hand store where ‘designer clothes went to die’. Wil didn’t know much about Alexi. She worked at a magazine, and sometimes reviewed gigs. She ate meat and hated soy milk. Wil enjoyed her indifference to politics and animal rights.
They had sex again that night, but she didn’t stay for breakfast the next morning. She had to pick someone up from the airport. Wil asked if he could see her during the week. She said it would be difficult, as the magazine was very busy and she reviewed gigs at night. She really only had a break from five to seven.
Wil saw her out, and kissed her, his teeth hooking her lip as she pulled away down the stairs.
“See you soon”, he shouted.
And there was no reply.
Everything moved more quickly in Paris, he noticed. Dogs and their owners spent no time admiring the small parks that dotted the city and economised walking time by shitting on the footpath, taxis went as quickly down six-lane boulevards as they did small laneways and baristas had no lavish routine when serving coffee, distributing espressos with the flick of a wrist. Tourists who hesitated when ordering at a patisserie were shunted, often removing themselves to observe the procession. Wil would have been intimidated if not for Sofiane; but he was one of them now, by association. A little part of him now regretted moving in with her after such a short time.
Sofiane worked at the local Ed Supermarket on Boulevard Richard Lenoir. She was from Lyon and had never finished the final semester of her degree in Art History. She ate with her mouth open, and had a birthmark on the upper part of her left arm that Wil had named Shelley, as the skin was two-toned and coarse. Her parents owned a military and aviation bookshop in the same quarter as her grandmother’s boulangerie and her feet swelled in summer, meaning their closet was full of footwear that hibernated until the picnic weather arrived.
She was well traveled and a passive animal rights activist. She ignored Wil’s contention that the modern France lacked the culture and sophistication for which it was renowned. This was often a topic of argument as it was the misconception responsible for Wil’s moving to Paris. He had pictured finding inspiration for the male protagonist of his novel, Nico, in the city’s artists and philosophers, and those of the ‘indie’ music scene. Wil wondered if Picasso had drawn pigeons at the same canal where he took Polaroids, and if the drawings had always been good. He felt quite sure he’d never finish the novel with the brilliant title, but he would see plenty more breasts on TV. He told Sofiane that she was the only reason he stayed.
After lunch, Wil ran a bath, soaking his underwear in the warm water near his feet. He was thinking about Melbourne when the front door clicked over and Sofiane called to him. Their apartment was small, and Wil could hear the sound of plastic bags from the kitchen and hoped that she’d bought him some beer. The noise stopped and she appeared suddenly. She undressed and they made love in the now cold water, shivering in near silence. Their only disruption was the chattering of teeth and the squeak of wet skin slipping against the stained porcelain. Neither climaxed and he held her still body until he was afraid that they’d both catch a cold. He carried her from the bath in his arms and wrapped her naked in their duvet. Wil kissed her forehead and let her dream; he hoped it was a good dream, one filled with drawings of birds, high-waisted jeans and the love letters she wished he wrote her. She breathed deeply, occasionally gasping as if being examined with a cold stethoscope. Wil crossed Sofiane’s arms over her stomach and watched her until she fell silent.
Sofiane’s father died that night, of cancer. Her mother called in the early morning, explaining the cause and the reasons for him keeping his terminal illness a secret. ‘He’d been sick for months’, her mother explained. ‘He wasn’t sorry for not telling you’. Sofiane told Wil about the last kiss she remembers giving her father and the time he broke his leg skiing when she was eight. She would leave for Lyon in the morning. Sofiane told Wil that he didn’t have to go with her, so he didn’t. In the morning he lied about loving her from the warmth of their bed, but didn’t get up to see her off.
Later that afternoon, on the metro home from Oberkampf, Wil took out his earphones and studied a girl worthy of being his female protagonist, Julienne. He quickly wrote notes on the back of a discarded leaflet:
‘Her left eye narrows into a squint, and she is either plotting or trying to find the bit of apple peel in her molars. Everyone can be more graceful if they need to be. If she had known someone was watching, her eyes would have remained full, and open, but she hadn’t’.
She got off at Galleries LaFayette and he followed her; she stopped at a café, so he ordered a coffee.
‘She put her hand on her hip, and made a diamond shape that went the length of her elbow, into the curve of her torso, and back again. His eyes traced the shape, and when he looked up her hoop eyes met his. They bore the softness of a childhood loss, maybe her mother. When Nico was catching the metro home the boy opposite played with a rubix cube, and he thought of her’.
The girl walked past Wil, and no scent lingered behind her. He scrunched the leaflet into his coat pocket and chased after her.
“Excusez-moi, excusez-moi”. She stopped a few metres away. “Would you like to get a drink?” Wil asked in French.
He took her to ZeroZero on Rue Amelot, where he knew the bartender and a few of the regulars. They had five or six drinks, exchanged numbers and addresses, and went home; no kiss, no sex. Wil made out like he wanted to be friends. Her name was Alexi, but everything about her was Julienne. He went home and wrote.
Wil called Sofiane when he couldn’t sleep that night:
“How are you feeling?”
“Not well. My mother is very upset. I think I will stay here a few more days.”
“Ok. Do you think you’ll be home by Monday?”
“I don’t know, Wil!” Sofiane replied angrily.
“Ok, I’m sorry. I’m just no good at…”
“I know. I know. I’m sorry, I’m just annoyed. Mother and her friends have been cooking all day, and drinking wine, and asking about you.”
“What things have they been asking?”
“Nothing, really. Don’t worry”, she giggled. “I love you”.
“Me too, biz”.
“See you, kiss kiss”.
It was Saturday, and Wil went to a flea market with Alexi in mind. He had texted her that morning and they arranged to meet at La Bastille to get dinner. Wil sifted through piles of junk, and made several purchases. Among them were old photographs to paste into his scrapbook, and two rusted bikes. He spent all afternoon scraping away rust, lubing chains, tuning gears, tightening cranks and putting on new handlebar tape. When he was finished he showered, and thought about Alexi. He put on his only shirt, a pair of winklepickers and three squirts of cologne, grabbed the two bikes by the head stems and wheeled them to La Bastille.
When he arrived, Alexi looked surprised. Her smile was both of excitement and disbelief. She did not protest or declare her incompetence as a cyclist. She was even content to follow a foreigner and stranger, through the streets of her city. As they rode along the footpath side-by-side, Wil could not help glancing over at the smooth thighs exposed by her short shirt and the small ears poking through her long brown hair. She laughed when he nearly hit a pole, flattered that she was such a distraction. Wil reminded himself that this was almost purely research. Julienne was developing, but he needed more time. He needed to know her intricacies. Her favourite tea, colour, poet and aperitif.
They dismounted and ate icecream by the canal. Wil liked the way she ate her icecream. Her licks were not tentative and she never focused on a specific area. She worked relentlessly around the cone, blending colours and flavours until all that hung from her top lip was a small crunchy stalactite. Wil found Alexi refreshing, but he would not make Julienne as beautiful. Julienne would have smaller eyes and no fringe. She would have freckles that looked more like splotches and no distinguishable smell.
“Why are you staring at me?” Alexi asked in French.
“Sorry…” He replied, shaking his head.
She kissed him. Wil’s icecream fell onto the ground as his hand grasped the back of her neck. A boy nearby poked his head from around the cover of his book, and watched for a while. The moment was so clichéd that Wil was almost certain the boy would be reading Shakespeare and not Rushdie.
They rode home quickly and Wil was impressed by her speed. She weaved past walkers and bins, turning back and giggling at him. He rode faster and caught her, laughing and jeering. Outside the apartment block, Wil dismounted and watched Alexi ride small circles around him. A minute past and Wil was already excited by her seduction.
“Do you think I’m funny…?”, she teased.
“Yes”.
“Sexy?”
“Very”.
Content with his replies, her legs slowed to a stop, and pulled one slowly over the top tube of her bike, exposing a flash of white.
Wil messed up the code to the building several times and her hand was already in his pants. Before they reached the front door, Wil paused, confirming the motives for what he was doing. He closed the door behind him and did a scan of the room for any evidence of Sofiane. He hadn’t thought of her in days. None of her clothes were in sight, and they never put up any photographs. The only telling sign was the smell of coconut on her pillow. He flipped it over, and made love to Julienne.
Wil woke to the sound of her humming. Coffee was already brewing on the stovetop, and Alexi looked watchfully over eggs in the fry pan. She cooked topless and so would Julienne. Wil approached her from behind and grabbed her waist, she kept cooking. He looked over her shoulder, and saw the eggs.
“Alexi, I don’t eat…” he stopped mid-sentence. He never ate eggs, they were Sofiane’s. “I don’t eat them unless they’re runny”.
“D’accord”.
They ate in silence, Alexi chewing and staring, Wil gulping with eyes closed.
After breakfast they took the metro to the Luxembourg gardens. They held hands and walked along the gravel, content, until Wil’s phone rang. He saw the caller ID, and pressed ‘silence’.
“Who was that?”
“Some asshole.”
Alexi took Wil to a trendy mosque near the catacombs, where revolutionaries met in the war, she said, and then browsed at a second-hand store where ‘designer clothes went to die’. Wil didn’t know much about Alexi. She worked at a magazine, and sometimes reviewed gigs. She ate meat and hated soy milk. Wil enjoyed her indifference to politics and animal rights.
They had sex again that night, but she didn’t stay for breakfast the next morning. She had to pick someone up from the airport. Wil asked if he could see her during the week. She said it would be difficult, as the magazine was very busy and she reviewed gigs at night. She really only had a break from five to seven.
Wil saw her out, and kissed her, his teeth hooking her lip as she pulled away down the stairs.
“See you soon”, he shouted.
And there was no reply.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Let's stay until we never leave #1
Arms cross collar bones
Chest to shoulder blades
Hands inspect for detail
To add to future days.
Once virgins to each other
In heated silent exchange
A letter placed in peril
Rests far from grasping range.
Candles melt to bench
As salt gives in to thrill
Melting into shiver
Committed against its will.
Chest to shoulder blades
Hands inspect for detail
To add to future days.
Once virgins to each other
In heated silent exchange
A letter placed in peril
Rests far from grasping range.
Candles melt to bench
As salt gives in to thrill
Melting into shiver
Committed against its will.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Artists
After blindly ordering the bottle of whiskey, the conductor asked the waitress if she’d write something down for him: “there is nothing more beautiful than the noise a woman makes, the way she speaks and pricks your inner thought”. She transcribed what he said, bewildered and noticeably insulted, and threw it down in front of the painter. Somewhat bemused by the exchange, the painter picked up the pad and after reading shook his head profusely: “the most beautiful thing about the female form is how it is put together. The limbs, the eyes, the ears, even the tips of the fingers make for the most beautiful subject”, he wrote back.
When the waitress came back to collect her pad and drop off the whiskey, the conductor asked if she’d written what he’d asked.
“Yes, I have. And your friend there replied. But you are both wrong. The most beautiful thing is how we feel, it’s what you can touch.”
She then wrote that down and passed it to the painter. Chaos ensued, as the contemporaries disagreed with her contention, but each was confused by how to explain his own point of view.
Silently drinking the sculptor smiled, oblivious to the fact that he was the only one that knew how to truly find beauty in a woman. That deaf and blind he was the only one that truly knew.
When the waitress came back to collect her pad and drop off the whiskey, the conductor asked if she’d written what he’d asked.
“Yes, I have. And your friend there replied. But you are both wrong. The most beautiful thing is how we feel, it’s what you can touch.”
She then wrote that down and passed it to the painter. Chaos ensued, as the contemporaries disagreed with her contention, but each was confused by how to explain his own point of view.
Silently drinking the sculptor smiled, oblivious to the fact that he was the only one that knew how to truly find beauty in a woman. That deaf and blind he was the only one that truly knew.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
i-Phone tram note #1 - 9:15am - St Kilda Rd - Swanston /Bourke.
A man reads his book backwards and it takes me three stops to work out he is Japanese.
A girl runs past open doors, chasing the pedestrian lights and i feel she should have a more supportive bra on.
I need to take a shit, and wonder if anyone else can smell, or tell. I wonder if the man with the cello knows or if he is just smiling at whatever is running through his headphones and directly into his brain. If he knows there is no convincing him otherwise. Like an anorexic explaining to her dentist her theory behind the rotting teeth, or your mother finding a small bag of ketamine in your misappropriated cigarette tin.
I envy those on the tram with facial hair, fervently believing that there is some correlation between facial hair and the procurement of blow jobs.
I think i recognise her. She looks familiar, at least i think so, until i notice the flared black cotton pants. I cull all ties. I'll deny our connection for a lifetime, or at least 'til Swanston and Bourke. Where i will alight, get a coffee from Lounge, cross the road, press level six, walk through glass doors and stare blankly into a vast sea of pre-mature responsibility.
A girl runs past open doors, chasing the pedestrian lights and i feel she should have a more supportive bra on.
I need to take a shit, and wonder if anyone else can smell, or tell. I wonder if the man with the cello knows or if he is just smiling at whatever is running through his headphones and directly into his brain. If he knows there is no convincing him otherwise. Like an anorexic explaining to her dentist her theory behind the rotting teeth, or your mother finding a small bag of ketamine in your misappropriated cigarette tin.
I envy those on the tram with facial hair, fervently believing that there is some correlation between facial hair and the procurement of blow jobs.
I think i recognise her. She looks familiar, at least i think so, until i notice the flared black cotton pants. I cull all ties. I'll deny our connection for a lifetime, or at least 'til Swanston and Bourke. Where i will alight, get a coffee from Lounge, cross the road, press level six, walk through glass doors and stare blankly into a vast sea of pre-mature responsibility.
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