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’.
