Morning Glory

We stumbled through the door, laughing and smashing our lips against each others. His smile was slick with spit and confident in everything it was doing. He bit down on my lip accidentally but laughed it off as he clung to my waist and led me in a drunken shuffle to the bed. His fingers were fumbling with the back buttons of my black dress as if he could not wait even one more moment to feel my flesh beneath his touch.

"Beau," he whispered. "Tu es belle." He did not need to tell me I was beautiful in that rich voice of his; I was already his, at least for the next few hours.

I glanced up at the clock as he struggled to get his snug jeans off. It was half past midnight, and Paris was alive. The sound of cars, voices, and romance ricocheted off of my window. Everything was beautiful, and everything was alive.

The way he started the sex was romantic. His hands cupped the sides of my face and he leaned in, his warm breath tickling my eyelashes as I let out the first surprised sharp exhale. The French did it better; back in New York everyone was a hit-and-run. No one stuck around long enough to convince you that you were worth anything.

The drinks bounced off of the walls of my skull. Everything was so fucking beautiful, and every movement was so fucking perfect; I couldn't stand it. I rushed the sex, faking a few orgasms so as to make him feel appreciated. He began dressing again as clock hit one. He gave me a kiss and mumbled, "Je vais vous voir bientôt." Rarely did anyone ever mention they wanted to see me again, but he said soon, and so soon it would be. I took my brown eyeliner pencil and grabbed his strong forearm, scribbling my number on it. He smiled, nodding slowly, and kissed me one more time. I watched him leave, ingraining his determined walk in my mind.

I pulled back the curtains and looked outside of the window and onto Paris, my new city. Nothing made sense here, but everything was better. My snap decision to move to Paris to find a job in art and fashion design had been the best one I had ever made. I thought about the small but stunning boutique I would soon co-own with Marlene.

I perched on the windowsill, flinging strands of black hair back and out of my eyes. I ran my fingers through it, tugging on every knot. The cars moved and honked below me, and I wondered what it would feel like to soar right under them, as they moved on top of me, claiming me as theirs.

I walked over to my kitchen, opening a bottle of red wine. I glanced over at the beautiful crystal glasses that were a wedding gift to me. Even though the wedding had been called off, I kept them as a reminder of something that could have been everything but was nothing. It hurt to place my lips on their rim and drink from them, so I grabbed the bottle and sat on my bed, turning on the television. The pictures crackled and blurred, but everything was funny to me as I drank, sloshing wine on my naked body.

The sky outside was a brilliant indigo, with stars somehow visible even from the metropolis of Paris, where I resided. I counted as many stars as I could before everything began running into one another, and I could no longer tell a star from an airplane from a flashing light on top of a tall building. But everything was still perfect and beautiful, even if nothing had a definite shape. Maybe it was better that way. Nothing needed to be definite, and nothing was anyway.

I heard shouts outside my window, and I clamored up a little too quickly. The world spun around me, and I collapsed back onto bed, but someone was still shouting. I got up more slowly and looked outside the window. A group of five men, clearly drunk, were running up and down the sidewalk, singing songs that had words but none of them made sense. Everything was a slurred jumble, but they were the most glorious songs I had ever heard.

I traipsed back into bed and shut my eyes. Green, red, and blue colors danced around inside my eyelids, forming fantasias of sorts. They were lovely, but I had to keep my eyes open because who knew what I was missing.

I slowly got up and grabbed a canvas I had stretched earlier and some paints. I took the paint and globbed it onto my left hand, using my right hand's fingers to blend and paint. My eyes were crossing and drooping but hand was flying; it didn't need sight to tell it where to go. I knew what I felt, and it was something akin to the brilliant sky outside.

I got paint all over myself, but I did not care. The blues and reds decorated my body, and I looked more lovely than ever. I wish I could have modeled like this. I wish Matthew would have seen me like this. He never would have broken off our engagement and married Sofia if he had. I was absolutely radiant, and anyone would have to love me. I abandoned my canvas and began smearing paint on my stomach. It was chilling but smooth, and I loved the swirling designs across my ribs. I dipped my finger in some black paint and painted tribal designs onto my breasts. I wiped my finger off on my nipples, and dipped it into the red, using that to detail up and down my thighs. I grabbed the wine bottle and drank more, feeling the liquid slosh into my stomach.

I stumbled over to my kitchen sink and washed the paint off of my hands as best as I could, wiping the remaining paint onto my butt cheeks. I stood in front of the window, watching the previously indigo sky that was now a deep blue at the top but lighter and lighter as my eyes dipped toward the horizon. The sun was rising, and I loved it.

I spun around my room, taking in every detail. Everything tilted to the left; why had I never noticed that? But then it tilted to the right, and I remembered I was drunk. I giggled and crashed onto my bed, getting wet paint everywhere, but I could not have cared less. It was a masterpiece; I would love it in the morning.

And the stars didn't look like stars anymore; they looked like dust on the pastel sky that needed to be wiped away in order for the sun to shine. The haze needed to leave before there could be light.

I pawed at my window, trying to speed up the process, but the sun took its sweet time in coming up. The clock red 5 a.m., and I wondered how that was possible. The time had passed so quickly; surely I would soon be dead.

I felt an upset in my stomach and hurried to the bathroom, lurching over the toilet at just the right moment. Colors erupted into the toilet water, hitting it and making unpleasant splashing noises. It was so ugly, but life was still beautiful. I flushed and washed out my mouth, feeling sickness consume me. Sickness was disgusting, vile, ugly, terrible. I didn't want any of it.

I slowly walked over to my bed and gingerly got under the covers. They caressed my skin and were cool to touch, like the very best boyfriend. I pulled them over my face and imagined they were Matthew, who smelled like a laundromat and felt as soft as a pile of feathers. His big brown eyes looked at me and I reached up to touch him, feeling him transform into air. A tear fell down my cheek but I would not cry, no.

Everything was beautiful. I had a job. I had friends. I had love. But most importantly, I had Paris. And nothing else was really required.

I watched the sun rise and speckle the sky, transforming any blues left over into brilliant pinks and oranges.