Bette watches as he
strides away, tall, shapely-cut coat and windswept hair,
Flicking a cigarette
butt from long fingers onto the cobblestones of the city square,
The smoke and smolder still
on her lips, her shoulders light and lost without the strength of his grip.
“Don’t look like that,
Anita, he’s not as bad as you think.” Innocence glazes her
friend’s eyes, erasing the scowl in a blink.
“Whatever do you mean?
It’s none of my concern.” (He mounts his motorcycle, scarf and coattails waving
his au revoir.) “But it’s not like you to be reckless, right here in the
street. I know this is Paris, but anyone could see. What about Jeremy?”
“Jeremy, indeed! This
is Paris. He’s not with me, and will he ever be? He’s a beau, not a fiancé. It’s simple in French.
Whatever tout le monde believe, I’m
looking for more than fait accompli.”
“But what do you know
of him?” Anita presses. “This René." Her lip curls on his name, a sneer mimicking
his lazy smile.
“You won’t say
anything,” Bette says, confidently. “That’s all I need to know.”
Anita’s lips are sealed
tight now, and she gazes straight ahead as they walk to Pont Neuf, to meet René on the Île
de la Cité.
Things taken for
granted. Anita’s silence. Tourists going to see Notre Dame de Paris. That a young English girl will swoon for the
handsome Parisian who promises to give “the expert tour.” That a kiss is
welcome.
“If you’re going to
take a girl for granted, then that’s how you ought to kiss her.”
Bette’s proclamation
breaks Anita’s focused disdain.
“Like she wants it as
much as you do,” Bette tries to explain.
Anita’s eyes are wary;
she fears Bette is making a terrible mistake.
“Don’t worry. I’m not
foolish.” Bette slips her arm into her friend’s arm. “I’m getting wiser every
day.”
Anita’s arm doesn’t relax.
Jealousy is a challenging task.
by Maria Mainero inspired by
Magpie Tales
