Paris is Kissing

Paris is Kissing

It was the best kiss of his life. It was the worst kiss of his life.

She nudged her bare shoulder gently to and fro into his chest as they kissed; like she did years ago. Quick, quick, slow. He recognised the Rhumba rhythm. A flood of distant memories; her shapely, smooth shoulders. It was a long way from down under.

His face looked older, weathered, a bit like a farm shed slowly falling apart; exposed to the wind, sun and rain. There were a few boards missing, but the structure was still standing.  Not dead yet. His triangular cheekbone scar had a pinkish tinge and stitch marks.  She didn’t ask what happened. She could guess.

But his lips had not changed, even after eighteen years.  Soft, sincere, insecure. Resistible.

Lena chose Le Duc des Lombards. She never looked backwards but she made an exception for Le Duc. In her dark period, she met Le Duc’s choreographer on a train from Toulouse to Paris. It was here she first danced in Paris.  

‘All That Jazz’ from Chicago pumped into the crowded bar and the dimly lit dance area. ‘Le Duc’ was still one of her favourite places. Lena hadn’t been here in a while.

He could see nothing. Nothing at all. Zero. The black, silk blindfold was tied tight. Lena made sure of that. She had only agreed to meet him if he wore a blindfold. He agreed. Really, he had no choice.

A jazz club in Paris is as far as you can get from an Aussie semi-arid outback landscape. Lena had popped into his little corner of the world; fourteen days of touring and camping with Outback Spirit. Drinking mulled wine around camp fire, bumping along 3000 kilometres of red, dusty corrugated roads, in a state ten times bigger than her birth country.

Lena wrote in her journal of her Dream under Capricorn. Seduced by a strumming guitar and ‘500 Miles’, walking along bush tracks beneath unblemished skies;  dancing in the dust under the Southern Cross.

He first shot Lena akimbo, atop a rocky outcrop.  He said she looked like a stock boy from a Slim Dusty song. She laughed her special laugh.  Then he shot Lena as her body glistened in the noonday sun in Honeycomb Pool. They kissed under a blood-red moon at Mt Augustus. He photographed her by scruffy, window light in Home Valley Station, muddy red sweat trickling down the curve of her back and dripping off her bare ass into the dust. Like tears.

Lena sipped her champagne, nuzzled harder with her shoulder and knee. She took his hand and led him to the dance floor. His right arm pulled her waist hard. She gasped. Their lips met as they danced. He softly bit into her bottom lip; an almost imperceptible moan escaped her lips. They danced slowly, rhythmically, like before.

His blindfold tight, in place.

His lips near her left ear. She never used to have pierced ears. They were pierced now.

‘Are you still searching?’ he murmured.

She hesitated. Searching for the right words.

‘Not any more’ she whispered.

The music ramped up. The vocalist channelling Edith Piaf.

Overlooking the Seine, the clock at Musée d'Orsay struck midnight.

2019 arrived.

Two uniforms emerged from the dark recesses of Le Duc des Lombards.

The senior uniform approached the embracing couple.

‘Votre temps est fini’.