A passage from the book that will never be published...
So, I am writing a book. I actually have been writing it since I came back from Paris over 3 years ago. I think of it as the book that will never be published. It is based on the lives of the people I never met during my time in Paris but got to know very well as I could hear them through the paper thin walls of my tiny apartment. So, why not have a passage "self-published" instead of keeping it all locked up in some frayed spiral notebook....
I hear her. Heh heh heh heh heh heh heh. Her machine gun laughter incessantly rising through the floor boards into my small Paris apartment. Heh heh heh heh heh. She has it all, I can tell. Heh heh heh heh heh. She is the type of woman who knows the right wine to serve with boeuf borgenois, who would never spill anything down her perfectly pressed white blouse, whose trousers are just the perfect length. Her hair is pinned so very neatly at the nape of her neck not a single strand out of place. She is perfect. Did I mention I hate her? She is classy, sophisticated, everything I am not. And, unlike me, she is not alone tonight. She has it all.
He arrived about an hour ago. The torrent of machine gun laughter has been battering my ears since then. Heh heh heh heh heh. The soothing jazz music she has playing in the background will not silence the ongoing laughter that makes me want to rip my hair out. Everytime he speaks, she laughs. And laughs.
You can tell she likes him. I wonder if he knows. His voice is a rich baritone, almost melodic, a complete contrast to her high pitched onslaught of laughter. Heh heh heh heh heh. They eat, they drink, she laughs some more and then I hear him say "Merci, merci, mais je vais parter maintenant". He is going home.
As he leaves with just a kiss on each cheek, I hear her shut the door and gently press her forehead against it. After a moment, she lifts her bowed head and slowly moves across her very grown-up apartment to her stylish sofa and curls up at one end. As she lets down her hair from its neat bun, she reaches for a worn leather journal.
I hear the scratching of her pencil and can tell she is writing "Je pense je t'aime....I think I am in love with you. Actually, deep down I know I am. I have known it for quite some time, just not recognizing what was going on or maybe wishing it wasn’t happening, hoping I wasn’t falling for someone who is unattainable to me, someone almost forbidden. It has been so long since I have felt this way for another, yet the feeling is still so familiar and so very welcome. When you are close, I bristle, I listen to your breath, I watch your lips move, I search each expression on your face. A warmth grows deep within the pit of my stomach, a warmth that soothes me, a warmth that makes me smile, a warmth I take to bed with me at night, a warmth that is the essence of you. You are remarkable – strong, intelligent, beautiful yet fragile, playful and caring. You don’t know what an amazing affect you have on the people around you. Your smile makes me nervous, your eyes see past my façade and I long for the sweep of your skin across mine. But I fear I am like a sister, a playmate, a buddy to you - someone who will never be looked upon as a lover. So, I will quietly soak you in when I can and count myself lucky to have you in my life on any level and hope that you will never know what I am truly feeling for fear of causing you discomfort or pain. But deep down I will know, I will know I am in love with you."
She closes her journal and I hear her pad across the floor towards her bedroom. No more machine gun laughter this evening. I suppose she doesn't have it all, she doesn't have him.
I hear her. Heh heh heh heh heh heh heh. Her machine gun laughter incessantly rising through the floor boards into my small Paris apartment. Heh heh heh heh heh. She has it all, I can tell. Heh heh heh heh heh. She is the type of woman who knows the right wine to serve with boeuf borgenois, who would never spill anything down her perfectly pressed white blouse, whose trousers are just the perfect length. Her hair is pinned so very neatly at the nape of her neck not a single strand out of place. She is perfect. Did I mention I hate her? She is classy, sophisticated, everything I am not. And, unlike me, she is not alone tonight. She has it all.
He arrived about an hour ago. The torrent of machine gun laughter has been battering my ears since then. Heh heh heh heh heh. The soothing jazz music she has playing in the background will not silence the ongoing laughter that makes me want to rip my hair out. Everytime he speaks, she laughs. And laughs.
You can tell she likes him. I wonder if he knows. His voice is a rich baritone, almost melodic, a complete contrast to her high pitched onslaught of laughter. Heh heh heh heh heh. They eat, they drink, she laughs some more and then I hear him say "Merci, merci, mais je vais parter maintenant". He is going home.
As he leaves with just a kiss on each cheek, I hear her shut the door and gently press her forehead against it. After a moment, she lifts her bowed head and slowly moves across her very grown-up apartment to her stylish sofa and curls up at one end. As she lets down her hair from its neat bun, she reaches for a worn leather journal.
I hear the scratching of her pencil and can tell she is writing "Je pense je t'aime....I think I am in love with you. Actually, deep down I know I am. I have known it for quite some time, just not recognizing what was going on or maybe wishing it wasn’t happening, hoping I wasn’t falling for someone who is unattainable to me, someone almost forbidden. It has been so long since I have felt this way for another, yet the feeling is still so familiar and so very welcome. When you are close, I bristle, I listen to your breath, I watch your lips move, I search each expression on your face. A warmth grows deep within the pit of my stomach, a warmth that soothes me, a warmth that makes me smile, a warmth I take to bed with me at night, a warmth that is the essence of you. You are remarkable – strong, intelligent, beautiful yet fragile, playful and caring. You don’t know what an amazing affect you have on the people around you. Your smile makes me nervous, your eyes see past my façade and I long for the sweep of your skin across mine. But I fear I am like a sister, a playmate, a buddy to you - someone who will never be looked upon as a lover. So, I will quietly soak you in when I can and count myself lucky to have you in my life on any level and hope that you will never know what I am truly feeling for fear of causing you discomfort or pain. But deep down I will know, I will know I am in love with you."
She closes her journal and I hear her pad across the floor towards her bedroom. No more machine gun laughter this evening. I suppose she doesn't have it all, she doesn't have him.
posted by Cascadia at 2:21 AM
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