Art Nouveau and other stories

We started talking again this weekend but not much remains to be said. "What's your New Year's resolution" he asks vapidly, "I've been meaning to pick up smoking myself". I don't have one but I lie and tell him I'm going to write a book. He nods discreetly, right hand firm around a highball glass of Rye Whiskey.

Insomniac nights are becoming a habit, the closest I am to a ritual. I wander these Saint Germain streets long after he falls asleep and far in to the early morning. Last week I met her in the same place at the exact same time from Monday to Friday: the ethereal woman from an Alphonse Mucha poster. Dressed in burgundy and black, she walks lightly as if in a painless dream and leaves traces of l'Air du Temps on the air as she passes by.

I'm back in bed undressed before he wakes up, he asks me if I slept and I tell him that I'm too much in love. I guess it's a little cruel but I just can't help myself.