The Sunās pure, golden light embraces me as if I were his own, surrounding me and the other occupied seats at the cafe with its radiance. All occupied but one. Regardless, it is still a glorious day, almost regrettably ā often when I am on holiday I catch myself secretly hoping my last day is obscured by clouds and bombarded by rain, of course this doesnāt really matter as I am leaving, I just like believing I am heading somewhere brighter. You are late. This is not a rare occasion, the opposite actually, I knew youād be late as much as I knew Iād accidentally be early. Thereās little to do to kill time at the Mer de Bulles, I am growing restless just from thinking about all the stillness I must perform here, yet I can take some solace in the friendly faces around me. Around my intricate, metal island where I await your arrival, is an archipelago of tables, all of which are occupied by two to four people. Some faces are familiar, Monet sits across from me alongside Foucault and my eyes catch and hold eerily long eye contact with Nostradamus. A sea of bodies. Despite this flood of people around me I still feel quite alone. I suppose it is not the people themselves that remedy the loneliness but the connection that is birthed from familiarity, which I find very unfortunate as I struggle being a familiar presence anywhere and towards anyone. That is why I sit harbored alone, with only the light on my back for company.
I read on my phone and begin my preparations, once again donning my light coat and changing my relaxed sitting position to a more rigid āI just sat downā look. If asked I could not tell you why I do these little irrational acts of pride, struggle discerning if it's for You or Me nowadays. I unlock my phone and respond to your message.
I survey the area, performing a balancing act of searching for you while appearing to be doing nothing at all, another exercise in pride that Iāve welcomed into my routine. And then there You are. I spot You first, timid and careful, bumping your way through the crowd like a salmon upstream, until eventually you see me. That moment of connection, of mutual observation, is electric. We embrace. We sit. We talk. You tell me about the trail your mind led you down to be late this time, apparently it was something to do with physics and soap, to which I respond with a scoff and an affectionate smile as my face betrays my thoughts. You finally ask me about my day, I say it was fine.
Now as we sit I begin to observe us from a birds eye view, the world going dark apart from our two seated table. I canāt believe how much weāve changed while we remain exactly the same, You are still simple, soft and scared, while I remain solemn and cynical - well from my perspective. You treat me like a saint - no a visionary; you react to my murmurings like Iām a leading visionary in philosophy and art, like Iām the genius behind millions of unwritten best sellers. I wish I could meet the Me you see, just as much as I wish I could meet You as someone who isnāt Me. I feel slightly irritated as I continue my mental analysis of our relationship while you ramble away, maybe itās because I know you donāt share these thoughts of mine, yet it is likely the same reason Iāve been attached to you all these years..
Iām flung through you, our skin becoming one just for a fleeting moment, I feel your teeth where mine should be, feel your hair falling onto cheeks that are not my own. We crash and fall backwards, individuals once again, witnessing the descent of a billion bubbles that warp and skew the reality of Paris, France. The cream floor splashes onto windows and walls making a passage that I grab you and run down. I see people dancing, or at least what were once people, their forms sharing the geometric freedom of a Picasso painting - in fact I believe heās among them. They circle a bonfire of colors, all of which I have not been introduced to yet and refuse to embarrass myself in an attempt of description, we press onwards. Youāre cryingā¦ something? Something foul and putrid, like deathās big brother, I find us sanctuary under a weeping bridge and begin licking your face. The sickness from your eyes doesnāt seem to relent so I wipe your other eye as I work my tongue into the other and I see you smiling. What an untimely moment to be captivated by such a beautiful smile. In my stupified state Iām thrown off by an amass of hungry arms bursting from one of the bubbles, I attempt to wrestle myself free of them but itās clear this strength is not human, itās clear nothing here is anymore. They take my eyes, they take my hands and my hair. They strip my clothes and my features, all the identifiers I once clung to in my performance of individualism, and then Iām gone. I thought. But then thereās You.
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