Paris

Anne had had a rather Dickensian birth. Her mother wept with sorrow when she discovered she was pregnant. And when Anne's father brought home a pink rose because they were going to have a little girl, she wept again at the misfortune of Anne's sex.

It was only natural that Anne had determined to die datedly and dramatically in the flourish of consumption.

But not yet.... not yet....



She cut the nails down on her left hand and tuned the little black guitar in her lap.

"Shattered by your weakness/Shattered by your smile/And I'm not very fond of you..."

She stopped singing and perched the tip of her thumb nail between her teeth. She would have to join up with a band of bohemians who would travel with her to Paris where she would drink wine and sing in cafes until the gray night sky turned to the gray morning sky and the flowers fell from her hair and she was whisked away to bed. Yes, that was it.

"Move over, move over/There's a climax coming my way."

It would be cold red wine out of a glass carafe, but it wouldn't stain her teeth and lips; they would still be white and pink when she opened them to laugh and sing and kiss. And the flowers in her black hair would be the same color as the wine. He would want to untangle one stem and crush the petals on her pale shoulder and kiss the naked spot in her hair. But he would be too scared to touch her. Until she asked him to take her away from the smoke and the din and fell asleep with her cheek between his heart and his shoulder. Then he would touch her lashes and the corners of her lips that turned up so slightly even when she was not smiling.

Anne had a headache and the New York sky refused to rain.