Hourglass

I feel myself walking, rapidly, eyes down to the pavement. I brush past children, adults, tourists, street singers. Their stony shoulders carelessly brush mine. A moment of gentle pain, then walking. Walking and breathing. The streets of Paris twist and double back on themselves, deceptively. A convoluted catwalk.

I duck into my favorite bakery, pausing to cough at the door. The baker glares. I make a show of covering my mouth and turning away from the glass cases of fresh bread and pastries. He appears satisfied. “Bonjour,” I greet him hoarsely, perusing the morning’s selection.

The pastries leave an oily film on the outside of the bag, as I make my way to the door. I watch my feet, one in front of the other, slowly covering the tiled floor–

“Natty!”

Noelle is standing in the doorway of the bakery beside a tall, austere woman. The woman frowns as Noelle races forwards, tripping and springing back up as soon as her little hands hit the tile. She grabs my hand, gently, excitedly, smiling up at me.

“Qui est-ce?” the woman demands, suspiciously. A pang of sympathy hits me, starting in my feet, working its way upward. I smile down at Noelle, sadly, sympathetically.

“C’est Natasha Steel, le mannequin. C’est ma copine. My friend.”

Friend The word hits me, I feel myself start. Noelle’s Nanny glares, disapprovingly. Noelle rattles off another string of rapid French. I struggle to keep up, the words swimming in my ears. They all sound the same. The woman considers the little girl’s question, her face screwed up in a sour snarl. Noelle gives her a pathetic, rabbit-like look.
The woman throws up her hands, rolling her cold eyes.

“D’accord.”

Noelle flings her arms around the woman, who resumes a straight-jacketed pose and pinches up her face more than I believed to be humanly possible.

Noelle turns to me and speaks: “I am to walk home with you while Nanny does shopping.” I suck in air. Noelle’s constant attentions make me feel uncomfortable, guilty. I don’t deserve her affections. I am not a role model. I am broken, beaten, defeated, and worst of all she can’t see it. Blinded by childhood.

I am her nicotine fairytale princess, her bulimic fairy godmother.

I am not worth it.

*****

Noelle walks beside me jumping up and down, pointing, shouting. Her little watery eyes shine in the cool sunlight. I force myself to smile, gravel falling away under my feet. She skips, embracing the autumn morning. Her quiet laugh rings out, as we are blow off the park path by a premature winter wind.

The park itself is small, situated in the center of a small city square. I realize that I have walked this path before, watched the thin green trees bend apart and hurtle back together, sat on the little wrought iron benches.

Memories and memories floating in the quiet air.

I reached for his hand, smiling, my arm brushing his shoulder. He brushed me off, staring away down the path. A pigeon lighted on the ground in front of our little bench.

I giggled, running my fingers across his cheek.

“What?” I smiled. He sighed, shaking me off again.

“Nothing.”

The pigeon rooted around for crumbs. Andrew threw him part of his uneaten sandwich. A teenage girl giggled on the bench beside us, leaning in to kiss the shell-shocked boy beside her. Their bodies intertwined, as the wind whipped up little storms of dusty gravel all around them.

Andrew turned suddenly, placing a hand on my leg. He closed his eyes and sighed again.

“I’m going on another business trip.”

“But–“

“Just don’t.”

I looked at him, pleadingly, noticing the stubble on his face, the dark rings beneath his eyes. He had always worked too hard. It was my turn to sigh, giving in.

“Alright. Where are you going?”

“Ukraine.”

“Again? But that’s the second time this month–“ He shot me a tired look, his eyes dull. My shoulders fell into submission. “Fine. For how long?”

He clasped his hands together rubbing them for warmth. A little boy kicked at the pigeon. It spun around in distressed circles before awkwardly flying away, alighting in a near by tree. The teenage lovers a bench over were completely entangled now, their individual limbs barely discernable.

He spoke, suddenly, flatly. “A month.”

My mouth opened in protest.

“Look Nat, I really can’t argue with you. This trip is unavoidable…” he trailed off, checking his watch. I sat slumped in neglect.

“My God! Two o’clock already! I really must get back to the agency. Have a good photo shoot. I probably won’t be home for dinner tonight.” His voice had adopted a cheerful, derisive quality.

I was left, sitting there on the park bench, surrounded by pigeons and first kisses, my mouth opened in stifled objection.

“Natty! Natty! Regarde! Look at all the pigeons!”

I smile sadly, patting Noelle’s back. The trees sway overhead. Noelle runs, her baby blue sweater trailing after he chubby frame. I race to catch up. She reaches apartment stairs long before I do. She laughs as I lean against the railing, coughing. I hunch over, hacking into my hand. Noelle stops laughing, her little face stained with horror.

Finally, it stops and I can breathe again.

I draw my hand back, cringing. My palm feels wet and sticky. Cautiously, I bring it to my face, staring, not believing.

Little trails of warm blood trace the creases in my palm. A distorted red rose.

I gasp.

“Quoi?” Noelle snaps her head up, a rabbit hearing the soft steps of a fox, yards away. I am frozen, my hand in front of my face, my lips parted. Her voice is faint, worlds and worlds away. I inhale sharply, an unbearably false smile spreading across my face.

“Rien,” I smile, “nothing.”

“Good.” Noelle laughs again. I laugh too.

A perfectly sculpted hourglass, slowly, unknowingly running out of time.