am i more than you bargained for? : margaux strauss.

[Noir City]

I was four and a half when my mother killed herself. I remember the softness of her hands -- they were like swans, so beautiful. Beautiful. And we layed together in lavender-scented sheets while she talked about things I can't remember anymore. I wished I remembered. Gregory found her in the bathtub; a vault of her life, blood blood blood, heavy eyes closed.

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.

Because if I know anything at all,
I know that this time it will kill me.

[Noir City]

Margaux and Keegan had managed to peel themselves off the vanilla-frosting couch from a late evening of fucking to retire in her iron Herrington bed. Maybe it had been the jazz club, maybe it was the way his fingers made the strings of the bass beg for more, maybe it was the drug of his kiss. She couldn't even remember or even flat-out think straight, but she knew that she hadn't felt this high in a long time. They were a tangled mess; tired limbs and half-clothed and black eyeliner smudged around her eyes.

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.

She found this new discovery -- Keegan -- to be alarming. This is not safe. There were parts of her that wanted to respond to him in the most primitive ways, the most self-sacrificing ways. This is not safe -- yet she thrived off it's danger, his poison and his grace and his mouth. How could anyone deny him?

[Noir City]

I am obsolete. My phone is off the hook, and I mourn. Numb to dull memories of my mother and her sad brown eyes, how James fucked me senselessly in the shower, the emptiness and dysphoria I felt when I saw Keegan intoxicated in the back booth of a bar by the boardwalk. I am inebriated. I taste grief in my mouth. I wish Keegan would just hit me. Rape me. Just like Gregory. Then I wouldn't feel as guilty anymore. How could anyone forget about you, he said. I am a whore to this thing called love, I am a slave to it's promises and I am utterly disgusted by this weakness. I am alone. My heart doesn't beat for anyone. I'm going to India. I'm going back to Paris. I am a liar. I wonder if my father is dead. I wonder if he ever thought about me. I know he didn't think of me. If he had, I wouldn't be homeless. I wish I could take back Miami, take back all my love. Take back my mother, stop the bleeding. I wish the room wouldn't spin so quickly, the words are blurring before I even write them down. James, beautiful beautiful beautiful James. I want to keep him. He glows just like a dream, that boy.. he glows. I wonder what it'd be like to kiss him when it's snowing. He's the best secret I've ever had. I'll ruin it. I know I will. Just give me a little more time.

[Noir City]

Margaux was out on the balcony letting the thunderstorm take its rage out on her. The rain sounded like clinking slot machines and rice thrown on churchsteps and cracking open peanut shells. Her white linen dress was smeared over her skin, her hair matted down her back like she was shower tile, and she was wearing those bruises like costume jewelry. She laughed in the face of Miami, drank some of it's blood, was sure that she'd never see the sun again. That's when she came to the realization that she needed to blaze.

Her Gerber pocketknife was precise and quiet along the underbelly of the swisher sweet, until she held it over the trashcan, an index finger gutting it of all the tobacco. The waxed end would be torn off and discarded. The weed was already broken down on a Chinese take-out menu, the crystals sticky beneath her nails made rolling a little more difficult, but she was used to it by now. It was drawn slowly into her mouth one section at a time, the paper closing over much like an envelope. Her house key would be used as a valuable tool to pack in any loose weed. This was about the only time that she would really use lighters -- the crack of the child safety before the flame was brought along the entire length of the blunt, and then she would evenly light one end. She had drawn herself a bath [ she was becoming quite fond of them lately] and had ditched the linen, slowly lowering herself in the steaming water. She dried her hands on her awaiting lemongrass-green towel, officially lighting her 420 treat.

[Noir City]

I cannot sleep. I think of him.

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.

I watch the light reflect off the windows, and I feel rejuvenated. Smoke a blunt to my head, and I want to explore New York. Took the subway. I feel like I'm a sitcom as my new bronze heels click bravely on the sidewalk. I count potential lovers as they pass by, loving the way a tie looks on a man. Reminded of Charlie. Reminded of James when he took me to Azul. Can't think about Miami if I'm planning on getting over her.

[Noir City]

His calls were desperate every Monday and Tuesday, but by Wednesday they were hostile. Hectic ringing in the Brooklyn studio annoyed her neighbors more than Margaux. She was never home, really. Friday she was at Lotus (it was becoming her favorite club) having a drink with Krista who came up for the weekend. Saturday and Sunday were even more fun. She barely got any sleep. That was what Monday was for; catching up on all those much needed zzz's.

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.

He had come on a Monday, and she had stumbled through the door with a Catholic school girl skirt on crooked and her shoelaces untied on early Friday morning. He had held her by the ponytail, made her love him over and over and over again until her jaw felt unhinged and weak. She hadn't wanted to think or talk about it after he left. There were no bruises, so no one could see the faults in her smile.

[Noir City]

Lotus had been wondrous; like a thousand diamonds cradled in her palms. Uncountable amounts of champagne cocktails in glistening flutes, and the whole night rang of glutton. She had a little pretty pink chiffon dress on, silver stilettos, and bangles from India. Vocal trance vibrated through the entire venue til four and it was about then that the blisters started to show up.

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.

Margaux sat still, sucked on that filter with cold eyes. Exhale. A smile worth a thousand words, but really only amounted to three: I dare you...

[Noir City]

Look through four year old eyes. See four year old tears slide slide slide. The hinges were bold, were 14k with victorian detail, were not shy with creaks. Sound effects. It's Margaux. Green eyed bookworm. Green eyes were her most noticeable feature. Best. Memorable. Someone's crying. Someone's almost screaming. Someone is cradling a lifeless stranger. Chestnut hair. Skin gleaming with bathwater. Gregory weeping like four at twenty-three. She likes it when he reads Rimbaud. When the fireplace has hissing logs, bright bright flames that remind her of Christmas. She always seems to draw back to Charlie and her in the bathtub. Wishing she had been brave enough to slit her wrists then. Right before she fell in love. Right before she made those common mistakes. Right before she found herself loving two. Loving them in halves so that they made one whole. Wanting both. Wished she had slit her wrists. Then she wouldn't have to hurt her indecisive brain. The process could've been simple. Margaux in the snow, trying to call a cab. Charlie twisting the steering wheel until all she could smell was exhaust. Cocktail dress in the newfound Winter cold. James. She liked ta call him Jimmy. Kissed his mouth with the freedom she couldn't have with Charlie. He was everything ideal. Storybook ideal. Except for all the death that breathes at the back of their necks. Death like Gregory. Love is the ultimate nemesis. It's a competition and Margaux doesn't have a competitive bone in her little body. Not when it comes to sports she always hated to play. She likes Rimbaud. She likes Baudelaire. Hugo. Likes her Gauloises when it's cold just like today.

[Noir City]

"You're losing your touch."

"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."

"He's going to leave you. Probably knock you up and leave you to the New York cold. When that happens, don't call me. And do the paramedics a favor and use pills, it's much easier than trying to pull a corpse out of the tub."

[Noir City]

[ strauss : part I ]

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."

"You know she turned twenty-two last year. She isn't four anymore. She doesn't even know who you are."

"I'm not calling to redeem myself. I know I made some mistakes, Gregory, trust me. I know. I just want to.. maybe give her a call, have some lunch."

"She's not in California."

"Where is she?"

"Why should I tell you? So you can disrupt her life?"

"Well then tell me this: Is she happy?"

He scoffed. "No. She's just like Amelie."

"I was afraid of that."

Gregory was quiet for a moment. It sounded like he was drinking something, probably something strong. "I'm telling you right now, it's a waste of time. She'll probably shut you down. If she wanted to know who you are, she would've come to you."