Authors: Vivienne Harris-Scott
“
The trouble with love is, this sad story
always ends the
same.
Me
standing in the pouring rain.
- Kelly Clarkson, singer
Vi and Kevin
March 1993. 2 Square du Trocadero, 75016. Paris.
France.
“
I
’
m sorry, I
’
m sorry
…”
are the words dying on his lips, as
he feels his cheeks burn.
Her melodious laughter fills in the room,
as she stretches her naked body like a cat under the sun, while he bolts for
the door.
((~~!~~))
He watches her stirs, as she heard him come into the
room.
"
Wakey
,
wakey
, beautiful!" Kevin said, a blatant silliness
coating the words. He sits, bouncing at the bottom of her king bed, hands
pressed down on the mattress repeatedly, shaking the entire bed, and causing
her to grow irritated.
"Huh? Kev, what are you doing? It
’
s early." She sleepily whined,
turning her head around, grabbing a side pillow and putting it on her head,
sandwiching it.
"Come on my bundle of sunshine. I got
you breakfast..." he giddily sings to her.
"Sweet. I love you but leave me alone
…
" she mutters groggily, curling up on
her back, and trying to slip back into her deep sleep.
He stripped the covers from the bed in one
swift move. His eyes flew wide opened and as did hers, when feeling the sudden
gush of cold air against her naked skin, she blindly felt around for the covers
with her hand, and found none.
He stammers. She stretches and laughs.
((~~!~~))
Kevin had decided to surprise her with breakfast in
bed.
They had been living together in the Penthouse
for three years, and she had just returned to Paris from New York, for the
spring break.
He hadn
’
t seen her in over four months and missed
her. God was he eager for her BA
’
s year exchange program to be over. He
wanted her back. Home.
He had heard her come into the apartment
at 1am the previous night, and had pretended to be asleep when she had peeked
into his room.
He was happy she was back, but as usual,
he needed to mind his reactions around her.
She was his best friend, after all. He
loved her as such, but in truth, she was his family, his everything.
His
’
real
’
family was out of his life by default.
After a bitter divorce, his parents had shipped him to boarding school, and out
of guilt, his father had given him free use of the Parisian penthouse he didn
’
t care for. At nearly 17 years old, he was
living alone in a 1000 square meters apartment overlooking the Trocadero.
He barely talked to his mother who was living in a castle in the French
countryside, and to his father who was in another country altogether, living in
Washington DC with a new wife and a new baby boy.
The day Vi moved in with him was one of
the happiest of his life. She was his family.
Then, she became his everything.
((~~!~~))
From the first time he saw her, as the new student at
the International High School of Paris, he had been mesmerised by her.
She stole his heart without even knowing
it.
She had the most unusual eyes he
’
d ever seen in his short life, and skin
the shade of caramel he wasn
’
t accustomed to. He found her captivating.
Almost immediately upon her arrival, he
had seen his male friends starting to take bets, making it their mission to add
the green-eyed girl with mocha skin to their list of trophies.
He would be different. He would protect
her. He would be her friend.
As months and years went by, he saw her
embrace her sexuality. The never ending supply of boys, then men sometimes even
women, wanting her, showering her with attention until she decided to allow
them to be in her life, in her bed, if only for a fleeting moment, reassured
him he had made the right decision in choosing to be her friend, and not a
passing lover.
But, it was becoming increasingly
difficult. The pangs of jealousy were no longer slight, but nearly as constant
as the throbbing of his heart.
She was this impish creature who couldn
’
t be fenced in, and as any other man, she
captivated him.
He is Kevin, always cool and collected, an
amused spectator of her life and tribulations. Her comforting friend whose arms
are always open for her, whether she is sad or happy. Smiling or sobbing, her
constant. And she is his. She shared everything with him, had no boundaries.
After all, they
’
ve decided a long time ago, their
friendship is too special to be spoiled by secrets.
Her joy, her pain, her thoughts, her
hopes, her dreams, her stories, including all salacious details were whispered
to him when he would hold her in his arms listening to her, well past the wee
hours of the night.
On the occasion she fell asleep in his
arms, he would make her comfortable and watch her sleep with wonder, asking
himself, how by some miracle she had entered his life, changing it irrevocably
by her presence in it.
He was grateful. She was so extravert, so
adventurous, so assertive; it was a perfect balance to his naturally shy and
introverted nature.
Only with her, could he be amused and
caustic, only with her could he be trusting.
As years went by, her influence allowed
him to come out of his shell and deal with his inner demons, but he knew to be
careful around her.
He
’
d never be as extravert as she was, as
assertive as she was, as free as she was.
For that reason, he needed to be careful,
not to let himself fall for her more than he already had.
Friendship had to be enough. It was
enough.
He knew he could never handle her if they
ever crossed the line and had sex.
He would lose her.
And he would never let that happen. His
happiness depended on her being in his life. Because when it was all said and
done and she got tired of her lover du jour, she always came back to him. Home.
And that made him happy. He was her home
and she was his.
((~~!~~))
He knew she was a slow riser, and hated being bathed
with sun until she was up, showered and preferably had a cup of coffee in hand.
A cigarette was a bonus.
But she was home, after four long months,
and he couldn
’
t resist teasing her.
He silently walked into her bedroom and
deposited the breakfast stray on one of the ottoman in her room.
He silently opens the blinds, filling her
room with light, and he hears her moan.
“
Rise and shine beautiful,
”
he says bending over her head.
“
Go away!
”
she grumbles, refusing to open her eyes,
and he sees one of her hand blindly seek a pillow to cover her head completely.
He smiles, and in one swift motion, pulls
the quilt off her body.
She removes the pillow from her head, and
her eyes rest on him.
“
I-I
… “
the words die on his lips.
“
Yes Kev?
“
she asks, her eyes not leaving his, as
she arches her naked body, giving him a centrefold view of herself.
He turns crimson as seconds pass by,
unable to detach his eyes from her body. It
’
s only when he hears her laugh, and his
eyes finally go up to meet her amused gaze that he finds the strength to move
and bolt out of her room.
((~~!~~))
Twenty minutes later, she nonchalantly appears in the
lounge wearing her bedroom hair, distress jeans and a white tank top, walking
barefoot, and looking like a sultry minx.
He swallows, hard, barely able to keep his
eyes off her.
She is standing right in front of him and
says,
”
Scoot
”
. He moves from the spot he was occupying
on the sofa, to the corner of the sectional.
She grabs a pillow, lets it fall on his
lap, and lies down, placing her hear on it. Looking straight into his eyes, she
softly asks,
”
Do we need to talk about it?
”
His eyes widen, but his voice, just above
a whisper, says,
“
No,
”
as he closes his eyes, tilting his head
back, his hands still shaking. He feels her shift her head, and her body
fidget. When he reopens his eyes, the back of her head is touching his stomach,
her body turned outwards, she is holding his knee and he can
’
t help but stroke her hair, like he
’
s done a million times before.
They remain in comfortable silence until
she squeezes his knee and says mischievously,
“
Kev, are you going to start telling me
what you
’
ve been up to for the past four months or
do I have to tickle it out of you?
”
He laughs, relieved. Then, starts talking.
((~~!~~))
May 1995. 2 Square du Trocadero, 75016, Paris. France.
She walks into the apartment; her curls tied in a
messy bun, her cheeks spotting a healthy glow; one hand is holding a mug of
Irish coffee she
‘
d just picked up from the Drugstore on the
Champs-Elysées to keep her warm as she walked back home, the other, struggling
to keep her clutch and multiple shopping bags from falling off.
“
You
’
re late.
”
he says, his tone denoting his
displeasure.
“
Kev!
“
she shrieks, flicking the light switch
on,
“
What are you doing in the dark?!
”
“
Where were you?
”
he asks coldly.
She sets her bags on the floor, and walks
over to the sofa where he is sitting and watching her.
She sits next to him, and says to his ear,
in a mischievous tone,
“
I got distracted
…”
and she giggles, sipping on her mug.
“
Really? With whom?
”
he asks, getting up to sit on the other
side of the sectional, to put some space between them. He can smell it. She
’
s showered somewhere and it isn
’
t with one of her signature scent
products. She smells masculine.
“
Well
…”
she purrs,
“
I met this guy in the metro, and he was a
spitting image of a young Jack Nicholson
…
I swear
…”
She stops when she notices how pale he is.
She examines him closely, getting worried,
“
What
’
s wrong Kev? Talk to me
…”
“
Do you know what time it is?
”
he seethes.
“
No, I don
’
t exactly, you know I never carry a watch
…
“
She takes his hand in hers, and asks
softly,
”
Kev, why are you asking me the time? It
’
s probably around midnight, maybe one a.m.
I kind of lost track
…”
she
smiles.
He removes his hand brusquely, stands up
and yells,
“
Yes, it
’
s almost one! And why am I asking? I
’
m asking because you and I were supposed
to have dinner at the Barfly tonight! Remember that?
”
he spits, breathing heavily, inches from
her face.
She is shell-shocked by his tone. She's
never seen him so angry before and in all the years she's known him, he's never
used that tone with her. This is actually the first time since they
’
ve met, some seven years ago, that he is
actually yelling at her. His face is contorted with rage, his eyes are blazing
with fury and he scares her. She steps back, as he continues like an
unstoppable steam locomotive,