Hourglass
Skylines and Smoke Rings
We face each other, the little girl and I. She looks up at me, intimidated and elated, a young girl staring at the Paris skyline for the first time. I see my missing lighter outlined in her white hand, it’s gleaming surface stark against her doughy skin. With a breath she musters all the courage of her eight and speaks, stuttering, “M-madame, j’ai–j’ai trouve votre …” she trails off. I gaze down at her with that look of condescending disgust that I have seen and hated on the faces of so many others.
Her hand curls around her opposite wrist. She stares at the floor thinking. I see her mouth miming words. Finally, she speaks again in formal, heavily accented English, “Your lighter for cigarettes. I have found it.” Her little shoulders shake as she places it in my palm. I am closing the door, a turtle receding back into its shell. Suddenly, the girl’s head springs upwards, her hand extended towards me. The clammy shape of my lighter is imprinted on her palm.
“Attendez! W-wait! Le mannequin… are you really Natasha Steel?” I sigh, opening the door halfway. A lady tumbles up the stairs, three shopping bags in each hand. Outside a taxi horn blares in disgust. I sigh. “Yeah. I was.” With a flick of my wrist I light the cigarette, pocketing the mauve lighter. Little rings of smoke curl around the little girl’s head. I hear her suck in a deep breath, the air traveling down her throat, through her stomach, to her toes. She looks up at me with the biggest eyes I have ever seen. She thinks for a few seconds then speaks, tentatively: “Can–can I come inside? Into your apartment, I mean. I–“ I sigh again, sending a puff of smoke down the hallway. I roll my eyes, drumming my fingers against the doorframe. “Kid, does your mom know you’re here?” She shakes her head rapidly. I swear I can hear her heart banging against her little chest, “Okay–okay, don’t kill yourself.” I open the door the rest of the way, ushering her inside. She shuffles in, her furry boots brushing the floor. Her chubby legs seem paralyzed, rooted there in the white entryway in a sea of cardboard boxes and cigarette cartons. The gilded clock on the mantle ticks away the seconds. I blow a few more smoke rings, running my other hand through my hair. “What’s your name, Kid?”
“Noelle. Je m’appelle Noelle Fournier.” She extends her sweaty hand in a stiff motion. I pull away, wiping my palms on the back pockets of my jeans. The door creaks shut behind us.
Her hand curls around her opposite wrist. She stares at the floor thinking. I see her mouth miming words. Finally, she speaks again in formal, heavily accented English, “Your lighter for cigarettes. I have found it.” Her little shoulders shake as she places it in my palm. I am closing the door, a turtle receding back into its shell. Suddenly, the girl’s head springs upwards, her hand extended towards me. The clammy shape of my lighter is imprinted on her palm.
“Attendez! W-wait! Le mannequin… are you really Natasha Steel?” I sigh, opening the door halfway. A lady tumbles up the stairs, three shopping bags in each hand. Outside a taxi horn blares in disgust. I sigh. “Yeah. I was.” With a flick of my wrist I light the cigarette, pocketing the mauve lighter. Little rings of smoke curl around the little girl’s head. I hear her suck in a deep breath, the air traveling down her throat, through her stomach, to her toes. She looks up at me with the biggest eyes I have ever seen. She thinks for a few seconds then speaks, tentatively: “Can–can I come inside? Into your apartment, I mean. I–“ I sigh again, sending a puff of smoke down the hallway. I roll my eyes, drumming my fingers against the doorframe. “Kid, does your mom know you’re here?” She shakes her head rapidly. I swear I can hear her heart banging against her little chest, “Okay–okay, don’t kill yourself.” I open the door the rest of the way, ushering her inside. She shuffles in, her furry boots brushing the floor. Her chubby legs seem paralyzed, rooted there in the white entryway in a sea of cardboard boxes and cigarette cartons. The gilded clock on the mantle ticks away the seconds. I blow a few more smoke rings, running my other hand through my hair. “What’s your name, Kid?”
“Noelle. Je m’appelle Noelle Fournier.” She extends her sweaty hand in a stiff motion. I pull away, wiping my palms on the back pockets of my jeans. The door creaks shut behind us.