Libertines Stories

This is my Paris. The radio is on low, and I am singing along to Indila. Badly. On a changeable day, the sun peeks through and shines on the grey zinc roofs. Its long rays rest on the parquet floor. The last of the stripped wallpaper sits in a rubbish bag. My easel stands proudly in a corner, happiest in a Northern light, full of stories from those months away. Peering through the window, I look down on Rue de Caumartin....

No one makes plans in Aix-en-Provence at the height of summer. This syrupy heat lingers, creating an indifference in its people. The Cours Mirabeau is swollen with tourists who mill around and dawdle. They have nowhere urgent to be. Aix is a city smeared as an arc at the foothills of Provence. Twilight lingers at its longest now, casting a reddish hue on the limestone buildings. The silhouette of Mont Sainte-Victoire bear...

She is the moon’s limp flower in plain jeans and a jumper. The flash of arclight startles her, and the fluorescent lighting that extends to infinity, flickers and goes out. Mathilde is scared of the dark. The bleak illumination returns, and quietly relieved, she sits amongst the gun-metal grey on a plastic seat. She rubs her gritty eyes, and the train snakes, rocking her. This is no lullaby because her boyfriend sleeps in...

“Noémie is already there?” I sigh. “I know I am late again. My boss...” “You were not expecting her?” My boyfriend sounds peeved. I must venture through the park to the Metro, “We met for lunch last week, and…” “Café Les Deux Magots, it is not important. This was meant as a…” “Put it on speaker, I want to talk to her.” “Coucou!” “Noémie! You know what to do.” “Of course!” “Fuck my boyfriend.” I laugh; Christophe is incred...