Marseille
Autumn
October submits to November in a gust of cold wind and pathetic drizzle. Autumn's reaching its crescendo, orange-brown leafs dying in the crevasses of curbs and naked trees shuddering in the dull mornings as some sort testament of winter's victory over summer. In the air, Arabic mixes with French, sharp consonants cutting into sensual vowels, and the sound of engines kicking back into life with a little rough persuasion. Marseille is best like this; stripped back, bare, exposing itself to the world.
The wind, whistling in through old, ill-fitting windows, gets Antoine up, leaving no such pleasure to his alarm clock that mockingly tells him that it's twenty-three minutes past six in the morning. He has an urge to pull the sheet back over his head, bury his face in the mattress and sleep for another hour and thirty-seven minutes - but he doesn't, because what's the point? Instead, he drags himself out of bed and plods along to the living-room, the hairs on his arms standing on-end as the chill in the apartment hits him.
The sky's a dusty pink outside, doing battle with feathery grey clouds that look filled with the promise of rain. More rain; Antoine sighs and drops to the couch. A spring or two sticks out and into the back of his leg as he sits, but it's a familiar discomfort, a bearable one. Tilting his head back and shutting his eyes, Antoine focuses on the diluted sound of raised voices from the apartment next door. They argue in the morning, when Antoine comes home from work, at night.
The mournful voice of the news presenter drowns out the argument as footage of bloody-faced children from the Middle East flash across the screen. Sorrow bubbles up with the acid in his stomach but the sight no longer sickens him. When did this become normal? Why doesn’t this make me feel sick?
His bus in the morning takes a detour through streets that he doesn't know because he has never needed to know them. A mosque has been firebombed, he overhears someone saying, so there's police clogging up the street. Antoine sinks into his seat, already soaked right through from waiting on the bus to come, and leans his forehead against the window, unconcerned by the grime and condensation that's built up there. Absentmindedly, he draws a broken heart in the condensation and wipes it away.
Work is mundane, repetitive. Antoine sits at a desk next to Jean and thinks about Nacer stuck in that tiny, sweltering kitchen across the city. Most of the time he watches the little jerking movements of the clock's hands across the office, willing them to go quicker when he should be working. He never gets into trouble, though. He finishes at twenty to six, declines Jean's offer of a ride home and slips out, jacket zipped up to his chin.
His first thought when he reaches his apartment is that he has been robbed. Then, of course, logic takes control: what does he have that anyone would want to steal from him? Still, he's pretty sure he locked the door before going out, and he never forgets things like that, even if there isn't anything of any value in his possession.
“Antoine?" Antoine stops dead, dripping wet onto the hallway carpet from the sleeves and ends of his jacket. He shivers horribly then, muscles quivering as his cold skin is hit with a wave of fake warmth that has accumulated from the radiator that hums unhealthily from the living-room.
And there's Nacer. He looks sedate, thumbs hooking into the pockets of his jeans. "You'll catch your death in that jacket," Nacer says, taking a step towards him, filling up the air around Antoine with a suffocating sense of familiarity. He's close, then, touching the zip of Antoine's jacket, eyes down with a concentrated tense in his features.
Antoine catches Nacer by the wrists. "Did you see?" he asks, loosening his hold on Nacer, letting him drag his zip down. He stares at him, losing eye-contact when Nacer tilts his head down. "That’s the mosque you go to, isn’t it? Was anyone hurt?"
“Can you drop it? I don’t want to talk about it,” Nacer snaps, pushing Antoine's soaking wet jacket from his shoulders and onto the floor. From next door, the sound of voices comes ringing through the walls. Like clockwork, Antoine thinks. “I only came here because my mum won’t stop crying and Hakim’s acting like a fucking idiot about the whole thing.”
Antoine doesn’t push it; he knows better than that.
Beneath the surface, though, there is a rage so fierce that Nacer’s hands tremble later on when Antoine hands him a coffee, clouded by almond milk and sweetened with too much sugar. He is naked, vulnerable, bed sheets pooled in his lap as he drinks. At the very least he doesn’t run off anymore after they have sex, Antoine thinks as he slips under the sheets on the other side.
Mug set aside, Nacer settles down to sleep without a word and with the olive muscled expanse of his back facing Antoine. Tomorrow they will wake up to a world more hideous than before, but they will not wake up alone.
The wind, whistling in through old, ill-fitting windows, gets Antoine up, leaving no such pleasure to his alarm clock that mockingly tells him that it's twenty-three minutes past six in the morning. He has an urge to pull the sheet back over his head, bury his face in the mattress and sleep for another hour and thirty-seven minutes - but he doesn't, because what's the point? Instead, he drags himself out of bed and plods along to the living-room, the hairs on his arms standing on-end as the chill in the apartment hits him.
The sky's a dusty pink outside, doing battle with feathery grey clouds that look filled with the promise of rain. More rain; Antoine sighs and drops to the couch. A spring or two sticks out and into the back of his leg as he sits, but it's a familiar discomfort, a bearable one. Tilting his head back and shutting his eyes, Antoine focuses on the diluted sound of raised voices from the apartment next door. They argue in the morning, when Antoine comes home from work, at night.
The mournful voice of the news presenter drowns out the argument as footage of bloody-faced children from the Middle East flash across the screen. Sorrow bubbles up with the acid in his stomach but the sight no longer sickens him. When did this become normal? Why doesn’t this make me feel sick?
His bus in the morning takes a detour through streets that he doesn't know because he has never needed to know them. A mosque has been firebombed, he overhears someone saying, so there's police clogging up the street. Antoine sinks into his seat, already soaked right through from waiting on the bus to come, and leans his forehead against the window, unconcerned by the grime and condensation that's built up there. Absentmindedly, he draws a broken heart in the condensation and wipes it away.
Work is mundane, repetitive. Antoine sits at a desk next to Jean and thinks about Nacer stuck in that tiny, sweltering kitchen across the city. Most of the time he watches the little jerking movements of the clock's hands across the office, willing them to go quicker when he should be working. He never gets into trouble, though. He finishes at twenty to six, declines Jean's offer of a ride home and slips out, jacket zipped up to his chin.
His first thought when he reaches his apartment is that he has been robbed. Then, of course, logic takes control: what does he have that anyone would want to steal from him? Still, he's pretty sure he locked the door before going out, and he never forgets things like that, even if there isn't anything of any value in his possession.
“Antoine?" Antoine stops dead, dripping wet onto the hallway carpet from the sleeves and ends of his jacket. He shivers horribly then, muscles quivering as his cold skin is hit with a wave of fake warmth that has accumulated from the radiator that hums unhealthily from the living-room.
And there's Nacer. He looks sedate, thumbs hooking into the pockets of his jeans. "You'll catch your death in that jacket," Nacer says, taking a step towards him, filling up the air around Antoine with a suffocating sense of familiarity. He's close, then, touching the zip of Antoine's jacket, eyes down with a concentrated tense in his features.
Antoine catches Nacer by the wrists. "Did you see?" he asks, loosening his hold on Nacer, letting him drag his zip down. He stares at him, losing eye-contact when Nacer tilts his head down. "That’s the mosque you go to, isn’t it? Was anyone hurt?"
“Can you drop it? I don’t want to talk about it,” Nacer snaps, pushing Antoine's soaking wet jacket from his shoulders and onto the floor. From next door, the sound of voices comes ringing through the walls. Like clockwork, Antoine thinks. “I only came here because my mum won’t stop crying and Hakim’s acting like a fucking idiot about the whole thing.”
Antoine doesn’t push it; he knows better than that.
Beneath the surface, though, there is a rage so fierce that Nacer’s hands tremble later on when Antoine hands him a coffee, clouded by almond milk and sweetened with too much sugar. He is naked, vulnerable, bed sheets pooled in his lap as he drinks. At the very least he doesn’t run off anymore after they have sex, Antoine thinks as he slips under the sheets on the other side.
Mug set aside, Nacer settles down to sleep without a word and with the olive muscled expanse of his back facing Antoine. Tomorrow they will wake up to a world more hideous than before, but they will not wake up alone.
♠ ♠ ♠
surprise! an update & antoine is actually miserable. next update hopefully won't be in three months. it's weird, i want this story to be grounded in our ugly, modern day reality, but writing even the smallest detail feels uncomfortable. the human race is simultaneously brilliant and shitty at the same time. urgh.