...you're divinity, you're spring...
he tells me. and i think i'm more
like autumn, but i will be spring
for him, for this moment that we
lay entwined in embodied poetry.

gregory insisted that i come back for his forty-first birthday. "paris cannot celebrate without you," he whispered in our native tongue, "i cannot live another day without tasting the salt of your skin." i didn't know whether to flee or to embrace him. i lit a cigarette, and decided it was time to leave. and it only took me a total three days to push paris away and drown in a new city.

chicago: one of the big city political machines in america, a city which also has the most criminally diverse population. this place makes me think of al capone and oprah and a lover i once took on in san francisco who talked about the food at le francais on south milwaukee avenue, and how i was ultimately the best french he's ever tasted. gah. he didn't have the sincerity that craddled gregory's tenderness.

she couldn't even remember how many black velvets [guinness and champagne] visited her. she had spent her first two days in chicago working on new illustrations for a French children's book (watercolors, pastels, half-finished art sprawled under the window), and now on her third day she was thinking too much about how she was turning into her dead mother.

she suddenly peeled herself off the ground, nearly falling from trying to do too much at the same time. she inhaled deeply, the smoke almost making her choke, as she abandoned the idea of writing anymore about how pathetic she felt. stumbling into the kitchen in nothing but black panties and a white ribbed tank she balanced a cigarette in between her lips while taking a blade to the swisher. the phone rang twice before she picked it up, cradling it between her head and shoulder, while emptying the tobacco in the trash under the sink.

"hello..?" silence. "margaux." she could faintly hear the anger in his voice. but there was relief, at least a little. "robert." she remembered how he loved it when she said his name like they do in france, much prettier than how they say it in america.

"have you been in chicago all this time? what the fuck, margaux, what the fuck?! i've been sitting here, worried sick about you for a week, and then you just leave some bullshit message on my voicemail with some fucking number to a phone you never pick up! i know --"

"that you fucked me over? that you should've told me that you were married the day that we met?" she was leaning against the counter, rubbing her forehead. this conversation was beginning to sober her up.

"NO! i don't have time to regret anything about you, margaux. i love you. i know you believe me. otherwise you would've never given me your number. you wanted me to call. you want me to come to chicago."

i didn't sleep all night, i just let my chemical god purr through my bloodstream. it wouldn't let me stand still, it whispered in my bones, played me like a violin, and i felt like the mediterranean sea. i danced barefoot in my kitchen to nirvana and drank Japanese Typhoons [midori, lime juice, champagne]. i felt so incredibly zoetic and glorious even when my lips, gums, teeth went numb. at four a.m. i smoked a blunt and i didn't feel high off the weed at all. all i could do was feed this thursday night addiction, line after line.

that french girl is a lost cause.

. . . . .

This is a mental institution. This building. This apartment. These hallways and fluorescent lights and quiet stairwells, the dead walls and creaking pipes were starting to get to her. And it seemed like no one ever left the confines of their room.

She never saw anyone, and when she did, they were usually a couple men caught up in each other like magnets or blood-thirsty leeches. Everyone was an addict here of some sort, she could see it in their glazed, fuck-me-honey eyes. Okay, she was a pothead of sorts, but she wasn't a crackhead, that's for sure.

Finally feeling like death, Margaux decided to roll out of bed and got ready to meet Chicago for an afternoon stroll. Keys were thrown into her bag, and she was in the lobby in no time, soooo incredibly craving Chicago. She could taste the city's blood in her mouth, smell its intoxicating perfume, feel its sweet glow through her veins and arteries like the perfect drug.

This is what she loved about coming to a new city. It was like a new cock. This could be it; this could be the city that tames her, that claims her. Maybe. She was beginning to get used to seeing Chicago through her windows. It was reminding her of that foreign movie she had seen when she was eleven. Window to Paris. It was about people in the Soviet Union who could escape to Paris through a window.

"This better be important." the annoyance apparent in her voice as she released the dead bolt and swung the door open. Gregory. The shock widened her eyes and for a moment she was incredibly glad to see a human being, someone who could relieve her of this loneliness. Suddenly that eager and soft smile melted off her face as the grief on Gregory's face registered. "What's wrong?" she asked, eyes narrowing. He abruptly pushed himself in and locked the door behind him.

"So, you've been here this whole time. You've got me sick in Paris, thinking about you, dreaming about you. In love with you," his voice was so dark, so quiet, so unlike the Frenchman she had known her whole life, "And here you are." Bitterness. He took the phone off the hook, pressed it against his ear. "Oui... still works." She hadn't heard French spoken so harshly, so blatantly hostile. Well, not since her mother had killed herself years ago.

"You know how work can be," she said carefully, absently wringing her hands together while backing into the kitchen, "Do you want some coffee? Maybe some tea?" He didn't even seem to hear her. He was too preoccupied with his thoughts, and this frightened Margaux. She had never seen Gregory like this. Some green tea could remedy this, she thought as she put the kettle on the stove. That is what Japan taught her.

The surprise rang in her ears over and over again until all the could feel was the alarm of her pulse when she swallowed. She couldn't remember how hard she had slammed into the cabinets, how she ended up with skinned knees, fingers bleeding into the blade of a kitchen knife that was now forgotten on the linoleum. She couldn't remember how she clawed herself down the hallway and how he had chased, and it all felt like a dream -- sanguine fingerprints like she had gotten booked all over the walls, all beauty washed out of her eyes and replaced with primitive fear and hysteria.

Her initial reaction was to hide under the bed (for some reason), but she fell into the television when his palm forcefully met the back of her skull, and he dug his fingers into her shoulder, whirling her around before she could even recover her balance, pushing her against the weeping white walls. All she could see was the boiling wrath and the deep excitement as his intense blues dropped down to watch her breasts; the panicked way her chest cavity rose and fell like a scared mouse dressed in cat's claws.

Margaux winced while trying to shrink into herself, shaking (couldn't stop, can't stoppp) as he had her by the throat. Choked sobs sputtering out from her puckered bloodied mouth; green eyes pleading, begging, caught in prayer. An Antarctican cold grin spread across his face before he released her and she collapsed in the corner, knees drawn in tight.

He had rolled up the sleeves of his blue-striped dress shirt while eyeing the ripped mauve slip she wore, one satin strap broken. "Am I too old for you now? You need young American boys to satisfy you now, whore?" She painfully closed her eyes in response. "Answer me. You fucking cunt. Answer me!" He pulled her by the ankles, ignoring the screams and the violent flailing as the back of his hand did more than just threaten to shut her up.

He grabbed her by the jaw so she would look at him. Silent pleas were buried deep in her stare and when she began to speak, he slapped her again. Hard. It happened so quickly -- how he dragged her into the bedroom by tangled fistfuls of chocolate locks, unbuckled and unzipped himself, pushing the silk up her thighs with weak resistance from her.

"Take it like the spoiled brat you are..." he had lustily murmured, head tilted back in deep pleasure as he grinded into her. She sobbed through the unloving thrusts, eyes tightly shut like a child in the dark, until he pounded and nailed her so deeply her head hit the headboard with a loud clunk. She cried out when stars exploded from her frontal lobe and she was overwhelmed with fluorescent yellow and then just a humming black. And all the pain felt like static, and she was a bird fleeing out the window. Free.

He was panting heavily as he backed away, wiping the sweat off his brow with his forearm. His ears filled with the kettle's whine and urgency. And that's when he realized what he had done. He cried her name and held her broken body in the mess of sheets, clutching the unconscious girl to his chest. Oh Margaux! He didn't mean to do this! Honest! He was just trying to demonstrate what your kind of love does to him.

But lover was. Curled like a child into it's mother, feeding off her warmth. It pained her to move. Her body had simply failed her, muscles refusing this aching demand. And the way the sun bled through the blinds -- Jesus -- she couldn't breathe in this blindness.

She managed to free herself from his trapping limbs, pushing herself up so she was leaning against the headboard. Head throbbing. She couldn't remember how she ended up in a pale blue chemise. Fuck. Her fingers played across those pretty bruises nestled on her thighs, wrists, ankles, ... she could feel them everywhere. The clean cut on her palm.

Oh Fuck. With disbelief she glanced at sleeping Gregory, hiding from reality in slumber. That bastard! She attempted to get up again, and this time her sheer raw fear willed her body to GO! Margaux, RUN! But when she found her footing, he was on her like a lion. Fierce paws pinning her to the bed, prey whimpering beneath hot breath.

"Margaux," he sounded so sad, so desperate, so lost, "I don't want.. to hurt you. Anymore. My love! Listentome." He showered her face with heavyhearted kisses. "Please forgive me. Pleaseee. I swear on your mother's grave, I will never do this to you again."

I still mourn her death in the quietest ways. Like when I see tulips. She died today, but it was on a Saturday. I don't like Saturdays much, because I remember how I never felt the same after that day. You just don't know what to do but cry. And cry, because when I saw her milked of all life I knew that I never wanted to fall in love.

I never want to fall in love again.

She had awoken at six, startled by the sun's morning rays. She had forgotten to close the blinds. She sighed before glancing over at sleeping Keegan. She could barely withhold her smile as she gently removed herself from his warmth, last night's babydoll dress finding refuge in the laundry bin by the door. She had finished buttoning up an oversized button-up dress shirt (she had stolen it from a New York fling) as she walked out into the living room, collecting their tea cups and returning them to the kitchen. She then lit one of her French cigarettes, watched a handful of birds play tag on her balcony, and let that smile glow into the horizon.

bathroom tiles. licked his lips. will not

forget the sins of September,

forget the smell of [beat me]

ice cream.

Autumn is overwhelmingly gorgeous. I want to seduce her, bathe in those lovely leaves. I hope James can forget me. Meet a nice girl. Some smooth-sailing broad that cooks him hot meals. Isn't that what everyone needs? I'd say Charlie needs to find a nice girl, but he would probably tear her apart at those satin seams.

I fear that Gregory almost has me where he wants me. It was stupid of me to take up his offer. I'm not really safe anywhere where he has the key. He can waltz in whenever he wants to. Luckily, he's a five hour plane ride from here. It's like... he's all the way in fuckin' California. I don't mind Brooklyn, for now. But if he ever brings up Paris, I will slit my wrists.

Last night I dreamt that I was in the passenger seat, and I didn't know who was driving. But Charlie was behind me in the backseat, talking his head off. Saying those cruel things he likes to spit at me. He's the voice in the back of my head. He's my split personality. That's what it feels like sometimes. I hate how he makes sense to me. My psychopath lover.

Every Monday Margaux woke up to the wretched shower pipes of other New Yorkers getting ready for the beginning of another atrocious week at work with shitty benefits and not enough PTO. Every Monday Margaux would ache off the side of the mattress, reaching for one of those craved Gauloises, light it with the bitter flame of a match, and lie on her back. She would watch the smoke like it was stars, and she would think of all of her admirers. She would think about the three most important men in her life: Charlie, Gregory, and James.

Every Monday she would listen to a handful of Gregory's messages, her brain snoring through most of his French ramblings. He sure did know how to make her feel guilty. He didn't even need to yell. This was a talent. Margaux would delete most them before they were finished; often having enough time to smoke more than one cigarette during these sessions. She knew he was still angry about the time he came to New York and how she had been with Charlie in Philadelphia. And then spent the night with James on her first night back.

Autumn breathed heavily through Manhattan streets. The subway ride had been like they always are at five o'clock in the morning; filled with the filthy and the insane and the sleepless. The guilty, the heroin-thin, the sinners. And then of course, the combination workaholics and alcoholics with stained ties and breath mints in their pockets.

Margaux had a hard time sleeping. It was as if she knew what was coming. She had dragged a wooden chair to the window, staring down the fire escape with a cigarette (like a loved pet) in tow. She still smelt like the night dressed in a dress shirt that she had taken home. It belonged to James. Half-buttoned, still crisp with a hint of his natural scent.

The Brooklyn studio silence was snapped in half. Gregory had awoken groggy on the couch. She hated how he just randomly showed up. She hated that she had ever agreed to stay here. He asked her why she didn't call. He had stayed up most of the night worried to death.

"I didn't know you were in the States."

Gregory told her to stop making excuses. That she was out whoring herself around New York again, wasn't she. The horizon looked so peaceful with soft pink and orange hues. BlahBlahBlah, she thought. BlahBlah. He asked in French, she answered in English.

"I don't know why you still care because I don't give a fuck."

She had felt a twinge of fear when it left her mouth, but when she looked over her shoulder, there was a smug rebelious sparkle across her face. He appeared defeated, but when he looked at her, there was only rage. The threatening lift of a hand.

"I'm sick of conforming."

"When did you ever conform to anyone else's wants and needs?"

"Well, I'm not going to start now, Gregory."

"Come back to Paris."

There was a moment of silence. "Didn't you have something important to say?"

"I love you."

"I'm hanging up."

"Margaux."

"You say my name like it's a curse."

"You are what you are, I'm not going to deny that."

"Why is it that you always have to call and ruin everything?"

"You're still fucking around with that lawyer, aren't you."

"He got bored of me."

"You broke his heart."

"Charlie is going to be home any moment." It was her favorite threat these days.

"You think he can save you?"

"I'm hanging up."

I never talk about her. The daughter in Paris. She was so proud of her paintings, those four year old smiles ("Look, pere," she'd twinkle, "I made green..."). I remember when she was born, I told Amelie that we were so lucky, whatever any proud father would say. I never talk about her. I tried to forget all about that mistake. Jackie knows about them. Jackie and I have built a life over that, and now it's just a fading memory that I rarely visit. We had a lot of problems, you know, with having kids. A lot of miscarriages, a lot of unnecessary pain. Maybe that's what made Margaux's existence so difficult to accept. She was a child born out of wedlock, out of a wreckless affair. I was stupid, I drank too much wine those days. She came to my doorstep two or three some odd years ago. I answered the door. She didn't even need to tell me who she was, I saw Amelie all over her, down to the nonchalant gazes and confident posture, hands stuffed in her pockets. I don't remember exactly how the conversation went, it's hard to remember things when all you could hear was the jagged thumps of my own heart. It was Saturday afternoon, the weekend of some Castro festivity. She asked for me by name, I said there was no one here by that name, that she had the wrong house. It was a shameful thing to say to such a beautiful girl with a voice roughly still absorbed by a French accent. My green eyes darting over my shoulder, paranoid, the snap and crack of my neck. Jackie was making bread in the kitchen. Before I knew it, Margaux quietly apologized and jogged down the steps to look over at me once again. She knew. What an awful thing to know, I thought back then. What an awful thing to live with. It took me longer than I had expected, but I picked up the phone one night when Jackie was out shopping with her sisters. I picked up the phone and used a calling card. Gregory picked up, he sounded exhausted, mature. I had forgotten he was in his early 40's now. Back then he was young with glowing eyes and if I had never gotten in the picture, Amelie probably would've ended up with him. He was wild up until Amelie killed herself. He seemed to grow up tremendously, taking Margaux under his wing, or so I heard. I revealed my identity, and he didn't skip a beat, he was quick to turn cold.

"How'd you find me?"

"I've got some colleagues in Paris and--"

"You called your old forgotten friend for a little chat?

"I want to see her."

They both had fallen quiet for an awkward minute or two.

"Maybe I should go." She broke the silence first.

"No. No. Lets start over. Tell me about yourself."

She didn't know where to begin.

He continued. "I... saw you awhile ago, before you left on your trip. I saw you with a man."

"Charlie."

"Ah, yes, Charlie. Does he treat you well?"

"Sometimes."

"He loves you?"

"I'd like to think so."

"You'd like to think so?"

"I have trust issues. Although I can't imagine why." Sarcasm.

"I know this is difficult. I know that you hate me and that you probably regret coming here."

"Come back to San Francisco. We'd be happy to help you with the baby. You can stay with us and--"

"And what? Never see him again?"

"He's bad news, Margaux."

"He's the one person who has never given up on me."

That got his attention. "Don't stay with him just because--"

"I love him."

"Exactly."

"I have to stay. You don't understand. Things will work out. You'll see. We're going to move out of the city. I think that'll be best. Buy a home. We'll be fine."

"Your mother was once that optimistic."