𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐇 𝐊𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐒
❝ They're the French Kissers,
that's what they do.
They will lure you in
and then they'll kill you
with a kiss. ❞
━ in which the leader of the french kissers
...
❝ I am a poor wayfaring stranger I'm travellin' through this world of woe ❞
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The moon was high in the sky when Rose stepped foot inside La Vie En Rose that Friday evening. It was an unusually warm night, the stars above the city like powdered silver on a cloak of darkness, and the streets teemed with life as people's chatter and enthusiasm filled the air with another type of oxygen, a feverish energy that would go down in history as the Roaring Twenties.
Ever since the war, it was frenetic to live, it was urgent and necessary to move, so as to never stop, never look back, for looking back and thinking about it was to allow the memories and the pain to settle in again. The only thing that mattered was the now, and it was imperative that the now was lived to its fullest, for people now knew how fragile and fleeting the present was, how easily it could be taken away, like a cloud that passes over the sun on what had promised to be a sunny day.
La Vie En Rose, like many other cafés and clubs in London, took advantage of that relentless will to live, so much that Rose could barely spot a free area inside when she entered it. Her eyes were instantly assaulted by gleaming sequins on exquisite dresses and colorful drinks on eager hands, her ears pleasantly filled by that lingering cocktail of different languages that touched her soul unlike any other thing, because inside that space she could be both French and English, both native and foreigner, and she didn't have to choose between one version of herself and another, she could just be Rose, in all of her different variations, as much as petals in a flower.
Around her people greeted her from every direction and with a calm smile Rose greeted back; but she did not feel that urge to live like they did, that frenzied wish to grab onto even the smallest piece of life before it slipped through their fingers like fine sand in a desert land. Rose never felt the urge to grab onto the clutch of life, for some people were already reserved to the clutch of death and had felt its cold fingers around their neck.
With hurried steps, Rose headed towards the stage where Jules was studying a sheet music over his piano. Behind the stage long red velvet curtains with golden patterns caught the eye of even the most unappreciative of costumers, and the feeling of anticipation, of being part of history embedded itself in the simplest of things in a mist of infinite possibilities.
"Jules, could you do a favor for me, please?" Rose questioned, making the Frenchman raise his head to her with a curious frown. "Ask Angeline to change the song for tonight, will you? I would ask her myself but she'll take it better if it's you asking instead."
Jules stared at her. He didn't question her; Rose's answers had the tendency to raise even more questions.
