Street of Broken People

By Emily Hill

© 2021

A Midnight in Paris

Don Bridge faced a life-altering decision as he trudged along the rain-splattered streets of Paris after midnight.

To his right the Eiffel Tower cast a luminous golden glow, puncturing the bleak shroud of fog that he walked through.

A relentless drone vibrated off the pavement. The intrusive blare of car horns, the blinking signals intended to moderate a disobedient flow of traffic, all faded into the background as Don lost himself in the choice that had to be made.

The air smelled pungent and earthy, cleansed by an early evening rain. He pushed forward, passing dimmed cocktail lounges and cafes quieted by the departure of that evening's crush of customers.

Don's coat collar was flipped up. His fists were jammed deep into his coat pockets. His was that slow plod that pushes one into their future—ready or not.

He caught his reflection in a department store window and then stared as he progressed past each pane of glass trying to figure out what he saw in himself. Emptiness, he determined. He saw emptiness.

Realizing he had found his center, his twin flame, "his Paris woman," after what seemed a lifetime of searching, saddened him now. To the same measure it had elated him three months earlier.

It saddened him because he had decided that he must leave Paris, and her. Her laughter, her beauty, her scent. Tomorrow he would tell her; and this would all be behind him—until he could return—to her, and to Paris.

Don knew there would be nights when he would crave the softness of her touch, her almost inaudible mewing followed by the tenderness of her reach for him during the night.

But it couldn't be helped. He was leaving all the same.

It's what he did.

The Wake

She was young, gorgeous, and posing nude. But there was so much more that the faded photograph revealed to Don Bridge's son, Steven. He pulled the photo away from the tangled mess of cigar box memorabilia that he discovered while rummaging through his father's upstairs suite.

The moment Steven lifted the cigar box lid an exotic fragrance of gardenia released into the room. Mysterious and haunting, it floated toward the high ceiling. Finally, the bouquet folded itself softly against a larger-than-life framed photograph of Mr. Bridge that hung on the wall. He was elegantly dressed in a velvet jacket, his face propped on the backs of his hands. His jacket collar was flipped up and held in place by a red cashmere scarf.

Beyond the veil of eternity, where anything is possible, two lovers were meeting again for the first time since that Paris autumn.

The sound of glass shattering downstairs pulled Steven back to the present. Another shot glass hitting the marble fireplace, he mused. After all, what good Irish wake doesn't result in cleaning up everything that has been shattered—real and symbolic?

Besides, wasn't that what the housekeeping staff was there for, to pick up the aftermath of his father's death, just as they had picked up the broken pieces of his life these past few years?

Steven turned his attention back to the woman in the faded photo. Her breasts were small, perfectly round melons, her rib cage high, and her stomach taut. She posed on her haunches, legs folded under her, waiting, in chromogenic stillness—forever waiting.