Status: Completed
L'amour
Une
Bleakly staring at a suede suitcase, the female eyes bled with despair. The shabby material had lingered in the corner of a pitiful hotel room until it’s mustard exterior had begin to fade and disintegrate through the Parisian breeze gliding gentle bliss through a nearby window. Autumnal blossoms of amber specks twirled in the wind, scattering tiny leaves onto a timber window frame. The last time she had glanced upon the vibrant stains of September, her graceful frame had been decorated with the glow of tightened arms around her waist, and a lavished smile which produced an energy far superior to the daring sunlight which haunted her view. Plush satin petals extended across the wooden window ledge, as a mirage of plump rose lips, parting every now and then to graze the forehead of the woman he loved, faded into a mist of condensations forming lightly upon the transparent panes. The cases remained in the stop where trembling hands had placed them three days previous, reeking of adventure. Though, only bore a single badge of travel; America. The USA. The supreme state in which Billie Mae had endured since the age of eight, the little girl exploring a free land in which flags fluttered near chimney-tops and suburban rows painted towns pastel, as children played tag on the front lawn.
Thought neighbors brought the scent of sweet chocolate-chipped cookies, partly melted with care, her senses gradually drew her back to the imperfections of Paris. Antique boutiques echoed with the rhythm of saxophones, busked on the edges of crooked streets, as rustic tokens of business flapped freely above archways in a midnight venture. The scent of fresh bread travelled from le Boulanger several streets away, as umbrellas sheltered those who ached with desire for a life of risky opportunities. Paris was certainly a sight of flawed beauty, though the city of romance flared with a violent flame of passion, branding young hearts with unforgiving iron. For all it took was a rose, and a callous scar would mount upon the effulgent skin of juvenile grace.
Billie Mae stared at the repulsive wallpaper which leaked of apricot disgust and Coral negligence. Pine furniture leaned against slightly damaged wallpaper, as chips of wood abandoned a cork exterior. A single bed lay mangled in the centre of a grimy carpet, which flooded each room with a sleazy shade of violet. Wrinkled sheets gathered on a harsh mattress, aligned with thin pillows moulded into the outline of a middle-aged face. Her hands had slithered upon said revolting features of her two star hotel upon the very day of arrival, as her body quivered with outrage at the unsanitary comforts before her, opting to nestle into a small travel blanket for warmth during her slumber, and the duck feather pillows her parents had tactfully donated.
Each morning, as the sun escaped through a blockade of periwinkle sky, Billie’s eyes stared deeply from her make-shift bed in the corner opposite to an exposed door, studying the merging of colours as each tone of darkness faded into pleasant sunlight. Each morning, the very experience of exploring tints dominate a universal screen caused a grin to choke her face of anguish. As of each morning, whilst watching the sun rise, her answer machine repeated the same regrettable tone of a cherished acquaintance. The message growing evermore ruffled each turn it hovered in the musky atmosphere:
This particular morn a howl of vivid colour pallets drifted through the open window, burying the furnishing disaster in an ocean of warm sensations. A reflection of lustrous September cursed Billie’s face with relieved agony. Bliss. Oh, how darling it was to have pumpkin stars darting across her eyes, filling them with glee, leading on to challenge her lips, sighing with comfort, then infecting her scent with spicy aromas. Yet, her soul ached for the touch of another. The stroke of a mighty palm upon her neck, or the tingle of a lover’s kiss as pungent euphoria settled upon her mouth.
She missed the weekends where he neglected to shave, leaving a thick mask of chestnut stubble upon his chin, and the distraction of his enthralling pupils, mirroring the image of a glorious Greek sunset sparkling simply in Springtime amusement. She missed his robust arms climbing around her waist as she twirled in his embrace, and his disobedient hair which remained askew on top of his manly demeanour. She missed the object of her affections and source of adoration; She missed Jake.
Her nerves suddenly started by the vibrating of her phone upon the dingy desk, as a song she cared little for echoed throughout the suite. Extending a sleek hand over to the device, her dainty finger selected an obscure button, as the phone was lifted to a tired ear. The free hand which had hung loosely until now began to toy with the tip of her shirt, which still stung with the smell of overpriced aftershave; A souveneer.
“Billie, I’m so sorry… I don’t know what I was thinking, look-” A smooth voice rang from the phone, seemingly dismal, yet determined. The sound of his voice forced Billie’s eyes to expand in excitement. A valiant laugh was uttered in return for silence. He could sense her astonishment.
“Billie, darling, I’m in Paris”.
Thought neighbors brought the scent of sweet chocolate-chipped cookies, partly melted with care, her senses gradually drew her back to the imperfections of Paris. Antique boutiques echoed with the rhythm of saxophones, busked on the edges of crooked streets, as rustic tokens of business flapped freely above archways in a midnight venture. The scent of fresh bread travelled from le Boulanger several streets away, as umbrellas sheltered those who ached with desire for a life of risky opportunities. Paris was certainly a sight of flawed beauty, though the city of romance flared with a violent flame of passion, branding young hearts with unforgiving iron. For all it took was a rose, and a callous scar would mount upon the effulgent skin of juvenile grace.
Billie Mae stared at the repulsive wallpaper which leaked of apricot disgust and Coral negligence. Pine furniture leaned against slightly damaged wallpaper, as chips of wood abandoned a cork exterior. A single bed lay mangled in the centre of a grimy carpet, which flooded each room with a sleazy shade of violet. Wrinkled sheets gathered on a harsh mattress, aligned with thin pillows moulded into the outline of a middle-aged face. Her hands had slithered upon said revolting features of her two star hotel upon the very day of arrival, as her body quivered with outrage at the unsanitary comforts before her, opting to nestle into a small travel blanket for warmth during her slumber, and the duck feather pillows her parents had tactfully donated.
Each morning, as the sun escaped through a blockade of periwinkle sky, Billie’s eyes stared deeply from her make-shift bed in the corner opposite to an exposed door, studying the merging of colours as each tone of darkness faded into pleasant sunlight. Each morning, the very experience of exploring tints dominate a universal screen caused a grin to choke her face of anguish. As of each morning, whilst watching the sun rise, her answer machine repeated the same regrettable tone of a cherished acquaintance. The message growing evermore ruffled each turn it hovered in the musky atmosphere:
This particular morn a howl of vivid colour pallets drifted through the open window, burying the furnishing disaster in an ocean of warm sensations. A reflection of lustrous September cursed Billie’s face with relieved agony. Bliss. Oh, how darling it was to have pumpkin stars darting across her eyes, filling them with glee, leading on to challenge her lips, sighing with comfort, then infecting her scent with spicy aromas. Yet, her soul ached for the touch of another. The stroke of a mighty palm upon her neck, or the tingle of a lover’s kiss as pungent euphoria settled upon her mouth.
She missed the weekends where he neglected to shave, leaving a thick mask of chestnut stubble upon his chin, and the distraction of his enthralling pupils, mirroring the image of a glorious Greek sunset sparkling simply in Springtime amusement. She missed his robust arms climbing around her waist as she twirled in his embrace, and his disobedient hair which remained askew on top of his manly demeanour. She missed the object of her affections and source of adoration; She missed Jake.
Her nerves suddenly started by the vibrating of her phone upon the dingy desk, as a song she cared little for echoed throughout the suite. Extending a sleek hand over to the device, her dainty finger selected an obscure button, as the phone was lifted to a tired ear. The free hand which had hung loosely until now began to toy with the tip of her shirt, which still stung with the smell of overpriced aftershave; A souveneer.
“Billie, I’m so sorry… I don’t know what I was thinking, look-” A smooth voice rang from the phone, seemingly dismal, yet determined. The sound of his voice forced Billie’s eyes to expand in excitement. A valiant laugh was uttered in return for silence. He could sense her astonishment.
“Billie, darling, I’m in Paris”.