Return to Paris
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Evening in Paris. The glorious sun descends to the horizon. In time, as eternity would have it, the solar sphere will sink into the great Atlantic, pushing a long cloud of crimson.. orange.. yellow steam into the Western sky. The still frame of the Eiffel tower is delivered as a monumental silhouette to the eyes of the city below. A concierge, charged with returning the last visitors of the night to the foot of its structure, lights a cigar on the observation deck and quietly scans the Eastern vista. He follows Eiffel's immense shadow, alive, walking in the park, climbing trees, stretching across the river, spotting the streets with brilliant geometric shapes of red and gold, framed in the deepest black. Above him the stars compete for a place in the canvas of the night. Resting, between the tower's thighs, this one man imagines the quiet street where his tiny shadow might fall from such a height. One street like many others, a few steps off the main thouroughfare, with a local deli, pub, and café, and a circle of neighbors who happily share their space with lovestruck guests who speak in tongues; for they find no difficulty in interpreting the language of love.
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The sidewalk café is filling slowly as its environs step into the alley, drunk of a delectable meal and generous sips of fine wine. A man, in his middle years, sits facing a lovely young mademoiselle. She slides a bare leg from a fold in her bluebell dress, and presses it slowly into him. They have only just met, but her eyes are locked in his stare, and a grin from her soft mouth is unbearably sinful. In one hand, the man holds a pen, with which he teases the page resting under his glass. In the other, he traces the outline of her quiet hand, passing within microns of its sensual surface. They sit in a haze of perfumed air, the taste of bold liqueur on their lips. Tiny fireflies appear between them as their erotic charge rises. His determined eyes are fixed on the windows to his partner's inner beauty.
His pen sets down and rolls across the paper. He begins to speak slowly..."you opened up your door, i couldn't believe my luck, you in your new blue dress, taking away my breath, the cradle is soft and warm, couldn't do me no harm..." He closes his eyes for a moment, inhaling his last few thoughts. Her curiosity wanders to the page below. What she sees are not words but the wandering lines and curves of an artist. Attempting to quickly define the contours of his work, she feels his eyes on her once more. They connect. He takes up his speech... "you're showing me how to give into temptation, knowing full well the earth will rebel, into temptation, safe in the wide open arms of hell " In reaction to the tense of this stanza, one eyebrow raised, her mouth parted, she lifts her hand into the cup of his, and leans into his breath. After a pause to relish the touch of her youthful skin, he proceeds, "the guilty get no sleep, in the last slow hours of morning, experience is cheap, should've listened to the warning, but the cradle is soft and warm..." As he speaks, his eyes wander across the interior of the café, searching for familiar sight and distraction. He no longer needs to close them, as the vision of her cherub face has engraved into the fabric of his mind. The young lady watches his hand dance across the page, romancing the curves of her hair, her lips, her neck. With closer study, his sketch reveals her eyes closed. In their brief time together, she cannot recall even blinking. Looking for some nuance of his sense, she only sees a growing distance in his blank stare. The fireflies are dim and slow between them now. With urgent desire guiding her, she lifts his hand and leads it to the warmth of her thigh. Leaning further into his space, she finds him once again observing her. A blush falls across her cheek, both from the rush of blood to her face and from the racing pulse deep within her. He glances at his work, thoughtful, sincere. His voice returns..."into temptation, knowing full well the earth will rebel, into the wide open arms, no way to break this spell, don't tell" Rolling his eyes into the pools of hers, he repeats with conviction, Don't tell... The tone altered, he conveys an undeniable charge to her. His hand slows on its canvas.. the face of a woman who will not bear witness to the union that follows. The other canvas he holds is bare and fresh, and awaits only the passion of his stroke to come to life. His smile invites her to rise from the public and lead him to the private. The sketch, in her shades of grey, remains under the half-empty glass as the couple step out of the street into the wide open arms of temptation.
An elderly gentleman strolls the boulevard. He carries on his shoulder a tradition of the birth of a grand city. He whistles a melody, familiar as a bedside lullaby. Lifting the long wooden pole from his shoulder, he reaches to the crown of the lamppost and pushes the life of fuel into the quiet flame in its glass house. The glow of the lamp smiles on his tempered face, warm and content. One ponders perhaps this will be the light of salvation to him when his time has come. With a grin and an offbeat wander, he moves on to greet the next flame.
A schoolboy rattles by on his green bicycle, a baguette balanced between his hands, a dossier of paper tucked under his arm. The chance of cobblestone and wind shakes a page loose and lifts it from his care. Aware of its freedom, the note takes flight toward the warm light of the café.
An elegant young woman, slowly making her way to nowhere, steps into its path. As she folds to collect the stray leaflet, a jealous sun peers through her summer dress, defining the edges of her soft curves and projecting them into the welcoming eyes of a party of gentlemen seated nearby. After a few steps, she gracefully leans into a lamppost, drawn as she is into the foreign script in her hand. A witness to her enchantment with the content of this page, a man sets his glass on the table and sets his eyes on her. He watches her lovely brown eyes unravel a few lines, pause, then continue. He watches her cheeks redden as she comes upon a bravely scandalous phrase. He marks that she has begun to move her painted lips, boldly reciting the text aloud. The din of the street behind overwhelms her empassioned speech. He quickly downs the rest of his aperitif, the last few drops brighter and sweeter than he expected.
Approaching in delicate silence like a prowling jungle cat, he settles on the opposite side of the post. Their shoulder blades press into each other, but she proceeds unawares..."He has an urgent hunger... His dark head bends to her hungrily... And the woman the woman turns her tangerine lips..." A breeze has blown a ribbon of her raven hair over his shoulder. He raises his hand, and lets it cautiously slide across his palm. Closing his eyes, he inhales the sweet aroma of her locks. He focuses once again on the words, her voice animated but steady "...dark squares. Gold garlands stream down over her bare calves and tensed feet...Nearby there must be a jeweled tree with glass leaves aglitter..." Longing to connect with her secret response to this prose, he turns slightly to face her shoulder. Her idle hand hangs at her side, flirting with the folds of the dress. Under the spell of this interlude, he pulls her hand slowly away as she reads on, softly clutching it between his. Mid-phrase, she halts her soliloquoy, catching a quick burst of the cooling evening air as she endures a nervous breath. Her cheek turns to a rose before his hungry eyes, then she sighs into the closing lines on the page "...he holds her still so passionately, holds her head to his so gently, so insistently...to make her turn..." The flow is interrupted as she quietly lingers on the consequence of the page. Her hand begins to squeeze as she turns to reveal herself to him. Her visage is not one of coquettish desire, but rather confused and pensive. Allowing their eyes to read each other closely, they both sense a notion of something gone wrong. She bows her head to finish the text, and slowly reads "Her eyes are closed like folded petals...She will not open...He is not the One" Her voice fades and flutters as those final words are imparted, offering to him a depth of vulnerability many people may never share. She then gathers her heart and her hand, steps back and reclaims her path to nowhere...
The waiter, having a moment to
himself, has seen everything. He pauses in his collection of glasses
from a table to reflect on his past, recalling the loves he has won and
lost. The one comes to mind and, yet again, the thought of her stabs
at his heart. He closes his eyes and brings forth from his memory her
simple beauty. Her golden-red hair, when kissed by the sunlight,
became one with it. Her green eyes which seemed to expose his very
soul when they gazed into his. Remembering her touch, he is lost once
again. He lets the memory consume him and he is with her once more.
He feels her hands caressing his skin, slowly tracing the lines of his
body. Her lips follow them in a slow, sensual dance. His hand relaxes
and the glass he is holding descends to the floor. The noise of the
shattering glass awakens him from his reverie. Gazing down at the broken
shards he is like a man in a dream. Instinctively, he retrieves his
broom to clean up the mess.
Words of Ambrosia - contributed January 18
The events that pass through a sidewalk café are in perpetual
motion...Here is your chance to contribute to the progress of
the evening with a story that continues beyond the current hour
and into the night. Every few weeks, when enough submissions have been
collected, Vincent will choose a short story to post in the café.
Please hold your text under three hundred words. If you would prefer to
compose it offline, email me at bharrison@golden.net, with the subject
"Cafe Submission" By including your own email, I may notify
you if your work is the chosen one. Thank you once again for visiting...