A Small Romance

At 7 a.m., Monsieur Moreau was hungry. Not for breakfast. Not coffee and brioche. He was hungry for that girl he had spotted at Madame Dubois’ soirée the night before. In the peach silk dress.

He hadn’t dared approach her as she held court by the fireplace. She was ringed by strapping young admirers, refilling her champagne flute, clinging to her every witty word. He assumed she was witty. She had the kind of haircut that was smart rather than sexy. A short black pageboy cut. A hairdo from another time. A smart girl’s hair.

She hadn’t even noticed him, sipping a large Cognac, trying to blend in with his waxed moustache, his pot belly sucked in as much as one could suck in a pot belly. The pot belly was new, and he kept forgetting it was there.

But oh, the girl. How he’d worship her. But he was invisible. He had slipped out of the apartment without a word, not even stopping to thank Madame Dubois, and no one had registered his departure.

As he considered his café crème in his dressing gown, he could think only of the girl. The things he would do for her. Serve her fresh croissants in bed. He was against eating in bed, but he would permit it for her. Help her with her bath. He assumed she bathed rather than showered. Put up with her cat if she had one, even though he was highly allergic. He pictured a white Siamese called Loulou.

He’d buy cat food and flowers and juicy steaks and plump scallops. He’d read her the pleasant news each morning. There was never any pleasant news, but he’d invent some. He’d reshape the world until it behaved.

He’d gut a chicken. He’d go on a diet.

Beyond that he dared not think.

Or perhaps he did.

Could he picture her nude? A milky shoulder. A sharp collarbone. Slim hips. Delicate ankles.

No further. He closed the blinds against the vulgar morning sun, the pornographic insistence of the day.

His shoulders drooped. No. His desire would defile her. But then—what was allowed? Who decided? Serge Gainsbourg was no Adonis. The beauty and the beast. The frog and the princess.

He felt faint. Took a bite of brioche. A sip of café crème gone cold. He realized he didn’t even know her name. He imagined she’d be called Yvette or Yvonne. Something feisty.

He pictured her strolling the Quai Voltaire, suddenly caught in an impromptu downpour. He would be there. Take off his coat. Lift her over a puddle. Then carry her… where exactly? To his apartment, of course. He’d warm her with a Cognac.

But it would be too late.

She would fall ill. Something with her lungs. The kind of illness novels prefer.

She would have to stay in bed. Doctors would lose their confidence. He would take care of her. Play her Satie. Read her Proust. Bring expensive perfumes. Learn devotion as a discipline.

She would slowly recover into love. She would say no one had ever loved her properly. That this was the first time anything had been arranged correctly.

And then—

He stopped.

Because there was always a moment where the story became indecent.

He shook his head. What frivolity. What utter nonsense.

Yvette or Yvonne was most likely in a stylish loft, wearing someone else’s shirt, laughing at something he would not understand. An American, probably. A filmmaker. Or worse, a photographer.

She would take a selfie and send it into the world like proof.

And he—

Monsieur Moreau finished his brioche.

Downed his cold coffee.

And went to buy socks.

Not ordinary socks. Argyle. From BleuForêt.

Because even desire, eventually, has to dress itself and go outside.

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THE SALON SERIES:

Part I: A Small Romance - Monsieur Moreau is desperate
Part II: Almost Midnight - Julia flees and fantasizes
Part III: Fresh Meat - Thierry’s Take

After writing about Thierry, I could use one.