the beginning of everything else

I spent months in Paris. Drank red wine in the morning, drank even more in the afternoon. C taught me how to make french pastries and so that was what we did. For hours we then sat on the roof, sipping red wine while we ate it all up. On Sundays we traded the red for bubbles and gave the sweets away to the neighbours boy. It was comfortable, life weren't too hard at that time.. 

Then at some point we got restless, needed more. We left the apartment and started wandering the streets. We found secret after parties, slept in public places, made love at a club and discovered where to go when nothing else welcomes you. At this time, there were only two of us left. He'd gone back home, had some things to take care of. He told me to keep on living my summer dream and hold onto it as long as it lasted. Then come back home. Well, that was harder than I thought it'd be..

and I was the neediest bitch in the room

So we flew away. And he fed me take out on the floor, stroke my hair and held my hand. The three of us took over the nights in Paris, listening to Louise Attaque all night long while emptying endless bottles of wine. We smoked cigarettes, forgot that we ever had voices and joined in a silent humming. Life was good and I felt safe. Yet I couldn't write it down, I couldn't say it out loud - I was stuck in a fantasy and we all know that those tend to slip away as soon as we make them public. I was happy as ever, still something was missing..


I stopped eating, had an exclusive relation with cigarettes and wine. Started again after too many disappointed looks from him. There were never any arguments, just the looks in his eyes and the times he turned away and disappeared into the night "to think".. I messed up and was minutes away from loosing it all. So I picked myself up from the street, with the help of my two big loves, my lovers in silk. And together we played the charade of life, still trying to figure out the lines, but it is always less hard when three sharing..

just what I needed

I told him I had to get away, get out. I said it in pain, after a bottle of wine, didn't think that he listened. Yet, when the weekend came I found my bags, packed, next to the door. He carried them out to the car, with a mysterious smile. He put a scarf in my hair, and we drew to the airport, cab down. He knows what a sucker I am for cliches. 


After a few hours.. we celebrated with bubbly wine so I lost track of time.. I found myself standing outside Cs door in Paris. She opened the door, took me in her arms and kissed me on the cheeks. Then she kissed my other love and showed him around in the apartment. It was the first time he had come to Paris with me, it was the first time they had ever met. Yet, somehow, it felt like we had always been there. Like the three of us, always lived together in Paris and that there were never a sea disconnecting us from each other...

paris says..

At a party. C is queen. In control, wearing silk, shimmering. All the girls wear clumsy wedges. Not a stiletto in sight. Where are we? Me, in control, in the corner, alone. Out on the floor - no control. 


A girl smokes golden cigarettes in the window sill. She painted them. I can see a little spot she missed, right next to her pinkie. That's right, she holds them between her pinkie and ring finger. 


A boy comes out from the kitchen with a silver tray. Foie gras and something that looks like flour. Does he want to brag? Does he live here? C walks up to him and says, with a british accent:
- That really looks like poop, referring to the foie gras. 
The boy looks offended. And so she is the center of attention. Who is the silk queen from far away? Poor boy.


Paris makes me scream. No need for the good-girl-charade. In the circle shaped room, in what corner can I hide? 

don't fucking tell me what to do

Paris is thrilling, noisy and forbidden. We have left the apartment and spent days and nights in the streets, bars, anonymous apartments et cetera.. C smiled twice yesterday, like really smiled. Inside out. Sincerely. It made me warm inside. Her family isn't too happy about having her running around like this - but she knows how to handle it. She might be thin as a stick but her mouth and fists can force anyone to do anything. Don't mess with the anorectics I learned yesterday..


Pont Mirabeau:
Breath regularly Aurélie, but small amounts of oxygen each time. Because they will make you pay for it. 


Few bottles of wine and suddenly she sees clear. You just have to love her. 

travel-pass

Packed my bags. Went to comfort C in another part of this world.. 


C has her own apartment. A deal made with her mother, some sort of growing up strategy - still she is living in the building next to her. The apartment is filled with mirrors in big, ancient golden frames. Ironic since C hates the image of herself. I walk through the spacious corridor that is the centre of her home. Enter the living room area. Everywhere I turn I can see notes up on the walls. C follows my eyes. Therapy thing, she mumbles. 


I traded one balcony for another. One love for another. We sit together, smoking. Not talking. No need of words. She holds her teacup with both hands, they have the same color as eggshells. Her hands that is. I observe. Her body trembles. But her hands are still. Her bruised collarbones, fragile smile expose her, she is not well. Yet, she is better than the last time I saw her. That makes me glad. 


We spend the morning on that balcony. Sharing cigarettes, a tea pot. In her company there is always too much smoking, never enough eating. It feels relieving though. A man is staring at us from his window across. C waves and gives him of one her juvenile smiles. It's the time, of the season, for loving..