Tuesday, 9 August 2011

There's no place like home. There's no place like Paris.

She looked at him, looked over the sea, and then down at her beautiful red shoes on the aged promise of the promenade. And that's where her gaze remained.

Blinking and blinking again, her eyes itched. Where there should be tears she felt a drought, and where there should be sadness, a frozen solid lung.

He stretched out his arms like a zombie possessed, but she could not enter their stiffness. And after rubbing her arms as if she had survived a shock, he took his own back and wrapped them around himself.

She tried to count every diamanté on her satin shoes: If each was a wish, what would I do? Would I magically make my small town discontent disappear? Poof. Would I conjure away my ache for a job in Paris? Kazam. And for friends I've never met? Pazazz.

Then I could stay here. Right here. With him. As me. Would I sense there was a sky full of other lives I could be living, streets I could be walking, birds I could be hearing? Would I wonder? Would I slowly start to yearn? Until my heart broke, or I broke his again? Would my slow build wish be for him to change? My love? Ta dah.

And as the thoughts took over and the diamantés sparkled one by one, she knew that the she she was here, was never her at all. Nothing could change. A life in Paris was her own promise, a promise that she made to herself. She had slaved like Cinderella for this chance, never believing that it would come. Or digesting what it would mean for them. To him.

She clicked together her heels, smiled with one side of her mouth. There's no one like me, there's no one like me. And there's no place like Paris, no place like Paris.

Or love like ours.

She patted his chest, just above his heart, although that was unintended. Turned on her scarlet heels, and walked away. He braced himself. Then turned and walked towards home.

He to his baked beans, patio, car wash on Sundays, daily dog walks and three piece suite. She to power shoes, own office, daily conference calls and walk-in-wardrobe.

They would never speak again, but met often. In moonlit dreams- where boardrooms, childhood roots, 80's ambition, unrealised desires, the shine of the new and the comfort of the old- could never come between them.

In both their dreams, they walked the seafront. And she was always wearing, red sparkling shoes that echoed the stars.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

No comments:

Post a Comment