That morning, during an ordinary goodbye that felt to him more like a final farewell and that in that moment seemed fateful, he had truly believed that it was the last time he would kiss her, the last time he would hold her hand, the last time he would take her home. Before disappearing behind the metal gate of her building, she had gently blown him a kiss and directed it his way using her palm. Surprised, he had eagerly responded with the same elegance, as if they were two lovers who could not bear the idea of parting for the day. His eyes had welled up with tears as he was aware of one tragic thing: the woman he loved was going to break up with him. He had supposed he would never see her again. Had she noticed his sadness? He preferred to think she didn’t. What reason would she have had to think that he was so broken hearted? Between them, nothing had officially happened to signal a breakup. Except that he felt it floating in the air, like the smell of a powerful poison he could not fight against. He had remained silent, hoping he was wrong. Whether he had liked it or not, it seemed like it was over.
Bowing his head low, he had slowly crossed the pavement and trailed away from the building, assuming that he had to forget that neighbourhood. He turned in the direction of his shabby studio. There, he would be greeted by emptiness fed by latent solitude, with new tears for company.
She had made him grow accustomed to the ways of a delicate and sincere companion who regularly shared with him about her life, but at the same time not stifling her partner with constant daily surveillance. He himself also allowed her to breathe freely. Day after day, his head was spinning with different memories, which plunged him in an abyss of emotions. He had felt a sharp pain, like a phantasmagorical sensation of seeing his feelings brutally torn from his heart.
The emptiness had lasted for nearly two weeks. He had tried to reach her multiple times. In vain. SMS, phone calls, even e-mails all proved to be futile attempts to contact her. No answer, no messages, nothing. He did not understand, he wondered what could have happened to make his gem want to leave him, especially since they had planned to visit Venice together during the coming weekend.
Their love story had begun so marvellously. The romance of a few weeks seemed by no means to want to separate them. But there was one fateful date pending since the beginning of their relationship.
They had met in the Paris metro station; crowded corridors, people bustling everywhere. In the middle of the anthill, a lost young woman was looking in all directions. The station suffered from a huge lack of modernization. There were no signs giving directions. Only the regulars knew their way, like robots that were perfectly programmed and in sync.
He was just as annoyed as she was. He couldn’t figure out his way either. Nonetheless, he was well familiar with these long tunnels. Since he owned neither a car nor two wheels and found the buses too congested and harder to find, he had gotten used to borrowing these molehills to travel far from home. When the weather was nice and he had to go somewhere that he considered close enough, he did not hesitate to make the journey by foot, for the obvious reason of the pricey ticket… There was also the Vélib’, the bicycle renting system admirably popular in Paris; but, still, the subscription offered did not appeal to him. He had already tried to remove the device, but it insisted on staying cemented to its mast. He did however find it to be an interesting concept, except that the logic of capitalist gain debased the ecological initiative. He had been struck by a dreadfully discouraging yet conflicting realization that when a political decision that benefits the public is made, as soon as it is implemented by ruthlessly ambitious private institutions, it only offers as a substitute an unfortunate observation of our economic system that an implicitly powerless simple agreement forces us to shamefully accept.
The young woman saw his head spinning and decided to approach him and ask if he too was looking for line fourteen. He did in fact have to take that line to the Saint-Lazare station to then take the commuter trail. He was going to meet with Stephanie, a painter friend of his. She however, was going to Bercy, in the other direction. She was very much his type, physically. Her French was not the most perfect. Her accent revealed her Eastern origins. She told him her name was Svetlana and that she was from Russia. In return, he revealed his name to her. “Frank,” he simply replied.
