Eadine

Eadine.

Funny, how a single word can conjure so many memories. Like a conjurer pulling scarf after scarf out of nowhere, knotted, brightly coloured, each scarf linked to the other but yet unique and individual at the same time. Seemingly endless, woven into a convoluted tapestry of emotions and memories.

A thread of silver here…

I remember kissing her beneath the Arc de Triomphe as the April rains fell around us like so many lovers in love. The crowd faded into gentle oblivion as I tasted her lips, tasted smoke and rose and desire; the curve of her hip against my palm, sliding, feeling, knowing, loving. Her breath caught as I caught her against the rough stone wall, nameless names of the dead caressing us in their still portrait of unlife.

…and a thread of gold here, flaring to life beneath my fingers…

She was soft and warm and yielding against me, her breath hot against my cheek as she stifled a cry. It was New Year’s Eve, and the fireworks blossomed into crimson and turquoise in the distance, unnoticed by the two of us. The night air, cool against our nakedness, made her quiver deliciously beneath my touch. And I bent- spent, flushed, panting- to kiss her.

…dull grey threads, kinked and knotted…

I don’t remember the days before she said goodbye, but I knew I shed no tears when she did. There was no pain, for the wound was too deep, too expected, to have come from anyone but her. I made the knife she cut me with from my own fears, I dulled the edge and tempered the steel with my tears. Love made her raise the hand, but it was mercy that made her strike me.

Funny things, memories.

Ghosts, fading away, crumbling beneath my fingertips like ash. In the dark, one could pretend: pretend to love, pretend to know, pretend to be immortal, that this moment will never go away like the others did. It was easy to pretend, in the here and now; lies sweetening murmured words, promises. No, not lies: I believed every single word I said, even though I knew they weren’t true. Three more hours before she has to go. Then, in the wane morning’s light, turning to the empty side of the bed where she lain the night before… there is time enough, then, to doubt myself.

She stirs in her sleep, mumbling my name. I smile, unbidden and hidden in the comforting shadows streetlights cast on the room. Light enough to see her by, to hint at the past and the present and the future, but never enough for you to see too clearly. She shivers, perspiration drying on the thin sheet that clung to the every curve of her body. I lean back into my side of the bed and light another cigarette.

Eadine.

I kiss her goodbye, one last time. She still tastes the same as she did, three years ago. She moans slightly and turns over, away from me. I turn away, too, tears stinging my eyes for no reason. Stupid.

The streets are cold, tonight. I tighten the coat around my waist and walk away from the smiling doorman, with a glint in his eyes and a knowing smile on his lips. Away from the warmth of the bright lights into the old cobbled streets of Paris, each corner dark with suggestive images. Stockinged legs beneath leather and lace, lips bitten with scarlet and whiskey, whispered breaths smelling of smoke and rose and desire. Smelling of Eadine.

Au revoir, mon amour.