Mercenary Assassin Damsel CHARLOTTE

1. Blood Only Shines in the Moment

"The knife nearly need not make contact. Flesh giving way with the lightest touch.
Blood drips, streaking against white porcelain; pooling in black grease.
I drink it up! The bitter aftertaste startles at first then excites me!
Like used motor oil marking my arrival home after a long journey away.
Simply to die for. Bon Apetit!
Now for the milkshake—"

Le Chef, one Rosemund Montagne,
hit STOP on the tape recorder
letting only the littlest puff of relief slip from lips unpursing a tight expression.
The veins on his tree-trunk forearms,
weeding through rose tattoos like vines, went slack
then vanished as he laid seized property onto the tablecloth with a delicateness
men only mustered after embarrassment.
Mademoiselle slipped the tape recorder back into her purse
right next to the lipstick, designer shades, and Astra A-100 pistol.

"Excuse me my ill manners, Mademoiselle. Whispers by lone guests over top of their lunches naturally draws my suspicion. Scrupleless critics and activists regularly disguise themselves as tourists in order to assail me and my restaurant with their slanders."

He unrolled his sleeves thinking
the neat fashion in which he straightened the cuffs evened out his messy habit
of wiping his hands all over his white chef's jacket instead of a napkin:
"You, despite my initial error in judgment, are simply a woman of taste."

"Don't receive too many compliments on your Black Pudding Lamprey, do you?" Mademoiselle teased.

"A hardy constitution like mine doesn't pander to the tastes of peasants.
Or witless effetes who fawn over beautiful results
but never anything resembling the blood and guts given in their creation. "

"An artist's conundrum. I can't speak for the witless, but peasants
are with whom hunger lies. Who do you think is better served?
Necessity or Comfort?"

"Neither. My best efforts are for my own benefit and mine alone," Rosemund assured,
"Forgive me one more transgression, but may I ask what brings a
lady
such as yourself to Faux Beaucoup this afternoon
besides my elitist cuisine?"

"Waiting on an old... friend."

Her hesitation cascaded through the other restaurant patrons
as awkward silence
only broken by black servers in white dinner jackets flitting from table to table.
The word "friend" hanging in the air like a joke made in poor taste. Or blasphemy spoken
on holy ground.
Slavish to Time as his profession required,
eyes always darting between wall clock and kitchen without intent
—Rosemund ought to have noticed the red second hand leap from 6 to 39
without hitting a single mark in between.
33 seconds gone in a flash.
Instead, when his mind returned to his senses,
it was in the midst of making a round trip
caressing every bend and curve
visible on the brown woman sitting before him.
From Turtlenecked Bosom to Cherry-Red Lips
and back again.
He felt shame not from the drooling openness
of his appetites worn on his sleeve
or even this uncharacteristic absent-mindedness. He stood flustered
wondering how he'd seen mud in eyes that now so clearly reflected an ocean's blue.

Rosemund rubbed the salt-and-paprika in his beard
with a slight nod of his head. Curiosity sated
just enough not to pick at the bones of her answer. He barreled through the cramped dining area and disappeared through double doors back into the kitchen.

Mademoiselle sucked on the straw like a candy cane
nursing her bushwacker into an emptied glass of powdered senescence while admiring
all the cream-coloured faces surrounding her. Allowing room and drink to fill her
with their welcome warmth, any chilliness wisely attributed to the ice cream housing rum. Nearby conversations showered her with overcast
"Negritas"
obviously complimenting the rich blackness
of her hair. The nearness of the tables , and her position smack dab in their center,
meant she felt like the guest-of-honor at every single one. A woman could only blush
so many times, demure and coquettishly mute, in response to such shameless
admiration.
And, oh, the music! How the violin sang! Was the composition Bach or Vivaldi? Whoever
to blame, it transported Mademoiselle back

Madam Jean's dance collective proved overly-focused
on contemporary trends to the detriment of any classical bent. Therefore,
Mademoiselle took it upon herself to become their specialist in ballet.
Pirouette.
Kick.
Naturally, the other dancers envy her grace and poise.
Pirouette.
Kick.
Men covet it. From the time she's an adolescent, men recognize how such a talent barely bud begs for their immediate and intimate cultivation.
Pirouette.
Kick.
Sniffing after their concrete rose ready to be plucked from obscurity.
Pirouette.
Kick.
This one a photographer.
Pirouette.
Kick.
That one wants her to star in movies!
Pirouette.
Kick.
"Okay. Just one drink. To stave off the jitters."
He promises they'll make "sweet music" together even though the commercial
landscape at the time only seems to reward crude and unsavory acts.
Pirouette.
Kick.
Pawing her way into the "mercury Coop Devil", Mademoiselle wonders
where the record producer could possibly hide a studio inside his 1 bedroom apartment.
Pirouette.
Kick.
A hopeless, hapless dancer with wide-set eyes
and a head like a hammer
lunges for Mademoiselle in the dressing room, claws out hoping to pry
Mademoiselle's eyes apart to match her own. Praying aloud:
"Lord, let me nail this bitch!"
Divine intervention took place a decade and some change prior
when God decided to make Mademoiselle Mademoiselle
and the other girl the other girl. Mademoiselle's retort is plain and simple:
Pirouette.
Kick.
Security drags her out from the passenger seat of his Coupe DeVille. The stage demands
her at once. What is Swan Lake without its Odette? The show must go on.
Pirouette.
Kick.
The Company doesn't hear excuses.
Pirouette.
Kick.
Mr. Record Producer slams on the gas, swerving, until the back door is torn off
by the car parked ahead of his.
Pirouette.
Kick.
"Aw, Baby! Stop spinning like a damn record and let me see something! Bad enough this joint's lit like a wet cigar!"
Pirouette.
Kick.
Train harder. Don't slow down. Quit.
Pirouette.
Kick.
Mirror and blood-stained carpet are added to Mademoiselle's monthly expenses. Debt
is crushing her. I'll never get away clean.
Pirouette.
Kick.
Mademoiselle must run.
Faster than cowardice. But how can she when she's shrouded herself
in armor? Body numb. Mind blank. Onlookers mistake the awkward clang of artifice
for her heartbeat.
Pirouette.
Kick.
Blood only shines in the moment. Leave it to academics
to poke
rust and figure out it's red.
Pirouette.
Stumble.
Keep heart bare.
No matter the risk.
Pirouette.
Take a bow.

Mademoiselle stops. The world keeps on spinning. No one cares. Legs jelly
from dizziness and exhaustion wobble and spill off the stage. The African Man
whose eyes squint in the dark-too-bright looks down on the ballerina
in this music box
shattered at his feet. Gnashing his teeth on the bone of an oxtail. From the plate on his lap hemorrhaging the juice of collard greens he garnished it with.
"Stand tall, kipusa." He says smearing grease and saliva
on thick lips with his tongue.
"It gets easier."
"What?" Mademoiselle whimpers disoriented.
"The world revolving around you."

A waiter, as uncomfortable in his white coat as Houdini
escaping a straightjacket, interrupts Mamzelle stewing over her ex-partner
with a meringue pie and the bill:
"Compliments of Le Chef."

Had she not been seated perfectly parallel behind a gentleman
whose prominent forehead suggested
an intellectual or even a Duke's pedigree
and the corner reserved for piano and violin behind him,
Mademoiselle's "Bravo! Chapeau!"
wouldn't have fallen on deaf ears nor her bonnet doffed in reverence on blind eyes as the virtuoso violinist made their swift exit.

Mademoiselle wrote in pretty cursive on the back of Le Chef's business card sticking out from the pie's cream.
When Mister, having arrived several minutes too late by way of a traffic-addicted yellow taxi cab, walks to the empty table and picks the card out of the pie with a bite taken out
he can't help but laugh reading her note:

When we do next meet,
we'll share more than a treat.
P.S. Garçon, Monsieur will pay.

~Mademoiselle

"Naturally," he says to the waiter while opening his wallet.