I kissed him passionately under the bridge. I kissed him hoping in all faith that it would not be our last. We broke our lips apart, eyes moist with tears, gazing into each others eyes with wanton need for the ultimate answer.
He wiped his eyes, turned his head, shoulders followed.
"This can't be anymore."
Walked away, very careful not to show anymore remorse for what else he needed to share.
"I am still going to New York, more work is up there. There is nothing here. For both of us. You know that. Paris is for inspiration, when lives get dull and pointless. I don't want to be pointless anymore."
We both have been desperate. Poetry and stories did not last long for the beatnick scene we've been part of for a Parisian year.
My heart ached heavy, beating rapidly in my chest. His words warmed my ears, stinging them, prickling from his choice of words. This world, this scene, it was not his style. I have known it even the first time I laid eyes on him. Handsome as he was, cool and confident. Aggressive he has always been. Now he's aggressive at what he now wants. An out, an exit, an eventuality.
"I'm not happy anymore, here. Come with me. Try new York with me?"
Aggressive as he was I equaled only in my need for independence. I don't fit if I can't make my own place. I have been raised that way, and I would be damned to live for a man.
****** excerpt from one of my short stories.*********
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