The Seine River

[The Exodus]

Santiago Ortiz

In the water, Rachel was practically feather-light. On land, too, she was small and easy to lift, despite her compact build. Santiago sometimes wondered how or why that was: that she could be so insubstantial and still manage to fill a room with her voice. He wondered how a set of lungs and other organs could be so compressed inside her. That thought frightened him, because inevitably it would lead to more gruesome, macabre tangents he didn’t want to explore tonight. He looked up at the stars, which were suppressed by neighboring city lights. The sky was otherwise a milky black, the color of coffee. It soothed the part of his mind given to distraction.

"I trust you," Rachel assured him.

Santiago smiled faintly. He sometimes wondered why she bothered trusting him. Why anyone did. Why Rachel specifically did confused him more. He’d let her down before. There was no guarantee he wouldn’t again. Once a disappointment, always a disappointment.

Rachel laid back, coming to a full, horizontal stretch. She felt even lighter than before now that the buoyant force took her weight off of Santiago’s hands and held her up. Santiago looked down and studied her. Her face, once wrought with anxiety, was now placid. She might have been sleeping.

"Alright. This isn't too bad," she said, opening one eye. "Of course I say that now when you're holding me."

“Or am I?” Santiago asked. His hands hovered near her neck and back now, but barely brushed each place. Instead, he was letting physics do the work. “You’re floating.”

[Deleted]

Rachel Day

"Or am I?"

Both of Rachel's eyes were now wide open at Santiago's question. He obviously had to be still holding her up because she was still floating. There was no possible way she could have learned to float all that quickly. It looked too peaceful to be something that had to be so simple. She scrunched her eyebrows at him, and then that's when she felt- nothing. His hands had seemed to disappear beneath her and Rachel Day was now floating on the water with nothing but the small little tides underneath her and making her sway slightly from underneath Santiago.

"You're floating." He finally told her as if to clear up any disbelief in herself Rachel had. Her mouth opened in a gasp and her body began to tense up in reacting to how frightening it was, but she growled, shutting her eyes and finding that zen she once had inside of her. It wouldn't work if she were a flipping out little fish. She had to be a pretty little fish. Rachel settled herself down and her body continued to stay afloat. She barked out an excited laugh, humming with delight. This was quite the accomplishment in Rachel's mind.

Getting a little more confident, she let out a breath, "Alrighty. So lets see..." She began toying around with her legs and arms now, wondering if she began stroking what would happen. Biting down on her lip as she began wiggling her booty and arms, her feet coming into play, Rachel Day began moving backwards. Once she saw that she could actually move herself and not sink, she began going fast splashing a little bit and making her way from Santiago more toward the deep end.

"I'm doing it!" She cried out in pure happiness, her eyes looking up into the sky. "I'm swimming!"

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

OoC: For Madeleine! BiC:


Aryeh Feldman

There were times when the sun was shining the right way and the wind was whispering with a gentle nostalgia that Aryeh could swear Madeleine was a spitting image of Adrienne. There was no particular resemblance; for one, Adrienne had bleached blonde hair, which was a natural honey ash colour, and, though kept short, fell in a halo of curly-q ringlets around her ears; Madeleine on the other hand was elegantly elongated, her hair like sleek, onyx raven feathers. But there was a mischievous passion that nestled just behind their eyes and an enigmatic kiss that was housed in the perpetual pout of their lips. There was an air about them that told volumes of the tragedy they held locked away in the atriums and ventricles of their hearts. Scars of the soul made themselves present in the premature lines of their eyes, covered by make-up they didn’t even need. He wondered how many times those eyes had cried the colourful rivers of day-old face paint, washing away the brave mask they painstakingly applied every morning before the sun even had a chance to rise and greet them. And Aryeh wondered how many times he hadn’t been there to wash it clean, dry it up. But what inspired Aryeh most was, despite all that, the innocent thirst and wonder they still had for life, their ability snd desire to chase dreams up and down moon rivers until they could catch them and rope them in by the tail. Life hadn’t been kind to them, but they were kind to it. No, there was no resemblance, but there were times when he had to physically stop and remind himself that, no matter how he felt about her, he had not raised her, parented her with Adrienne, he had no legal claim to her. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t his daughter, that he wasn’t her father, that she didn’t take after his wife. He didn’t need a piece of paper and a government seal to tell him that. In Madeleine, he saw what he could’ve had with his other children if just one or both of them tried a little harder. And he saw a glimpse of a past Adrienne that lived on only in the suffering memory of Aryeh and dusty records no one even listened to anymore. He would cherish this time with Madeleine, hold it dearer to his heart than anything he owned in this life.

“You know, tekhter,” he said, using the Yiddish word for ‘daughter’, having forgotten for a moment the French word he searched for. He put one of his arthritic hands, gnarled like tree roots, dotted with constellations of age spots into one of her own young, soft ones. “You look so lovely today, I’m sure Moses himself would part the Seine just so you could cross it without getting wet.” He took her to a bench—his and Adrienne’s—and offered her a seat beside him. “Won’t you have a sit with me, shaifeleh?”

[The Exodus]

Madeleine de Chandon

The week had been full to the brim for Madeleine de Chandon. Summer classes had just begun and, as usual, her ballet mistress duties extended beyond typical choreography, directorial meetings, and rehearsals to include classes for “up and coming talent” between the ages of seven and fifteen. Summer was, without a doubt, Madeleine’s least favorite time of year. In the summer, Paris was flooded with tourists. Madeleine could scarcely make it down her street before hearing the abrasive tones of an American woman shrieking at her husband or the choppy sounds of a Chinese man grappling with non-business French as he tried to get directions from someone who sounded like they’d be much more comfortable speaking German. Madeleine didn’t hate any other culture. Certainly, she didn’t hate any group of people with a real passion (Hate, she knew, was a case-by-case passion). Instead, she wondered if this was how the kangaroos felt when some “genius” unleashed dingoes on them. Helpless and irritated as they failed to fight off a swarm of mangy mutts who weren’t even invited anyways. It was only a matter of time before kangaroos and Parisians were little more than fossils on display beside T-Rex and Wooly Mammoth.

But. The original point. Madeleine hated teaching classes. They were the one place where French was exclusively spoken in her world these days, but children did not good conversation partners make. Instead, they were chatter boxes who all seemed attention starved. Little gossips, they would whisper to each other about how fat Suzanne was getting or how Therese might have an eating disorder. Madeleine could do nothing but stare at them and think, “Jesus Christ, I thought you were eight years old”, before remembering that she had been exactly that way at that age and that this was God punishing her for being a bad person in her past.

Never mind that her pupils, besides being annoying, were sticky. Madeleine was making good friends with the night janitor these days, if one could count begging and bribing him to scrub everything again as “making friends”. He didn’t seem too receptive to it and sometimes Madeleine worried she would have to pimp herself out to the night janitor so that her toe shoes didn’t get ruined on a wooden floor covered in kid slime. Already, she’d found gum stuck to the underside of the barre. Disgusting little beasts.

Madeleine said it every year, but this time, she meant it: She needed a vacation. What once had started as dreams of a small cottage in the South of France with a vegetable patch she couldn’t care for, became a wish to go further south, down into Spain or Italy or Greece. Now, it was a full blown desire to lay on a beach on the other end of the world being oiled up by a tanned man while clutching a tropical drink. It could be Antarctica for all she cared, as long as it was far, far away from Paris.

But for now, walking with Aryeh was as close as she was going to get to any of her vacation fantasies. And that was fine with Madeleine. Of the people she knew, Madeleine loved Aryeh the best. You weren’t supposed to play favorites, but Madeleine definitely did. And no girlfriend, boyfriend, or drinking buddy would ever make Madeleine feel as at ease or as loved as Aryeh did. Growing up, Madeleine didn’t have a father. She had a mother, who was often drunk and seldom home. She had no siblings, a fistful of superficial friends. And she had dancing. But for all the things she had or didn’t have the most noticeable void was that left by her missing paternal unit. If she’d had a papa, like the other girls at school, no one would have called her names. If she’d had a father while dating, she might have made better choices.

But she had one now and that was Aryeh. He was an unlikely candidate to be the knight-in-shining-armor every little girl imagines her daddy to be. He was in his eighties, stooped a bit and balding. But behind his horn-rimmed glasses, there was a glint of mischief. And he wielded his cane like Excalibur to fend off anyone who dared to mess with Madeleine. He held her when she cried about her broken engagement, made her dinner when she looked “too skinny”, and regaled her with stories that his biological children apparently didn’t appreciate. Other girls didn’t get to choose their fathers. Madeleine had chosen hers and she had chosen as wisely as a gal could.

For example, Aryeh rescued her today from a meeting with the costume designers over lunch. Madeleine didn’t believe in sacrificing her lunch break to talk about tulle and taffeta. And when she told the lead costume designer she had a date with her father, the other woman let her leave; something that “I have date with Jack Daniels” had never done before.

Madeleine and Aryeh walked along the Seine. Houseboats swayed on the wakes left behind by larger, cargo barges and gulls competed with pigeons for crusts of bread tossed by tourists who didn’t understand the phrase “rats with wings”. Madeleine’s hand slid into Aryeh’s as he spoke. “You know, tekhter, you look so lovely today, I’m sure Moses himself would part the Seine just so you could cross it without getting wet.”

Madeleine laughed. Flattery. Her black hair was a mess, since she’d forgotten to tame it on her way out the door. It rolled around on her head in wild clouds of curls. And instead of real clothes, she’d thrown on a blue button-down shirt and a pair of jeans. She’d gotten raised eyebrows from those who had known her for years. Never once had she come into work looking less than stellar. No matter how hung over, tired, emotionally drained, whatever, Madeleine de Chandon dressed to impress. If by the end of the day her hair was mussed, that was to be expected. She was a dancer after all. But never before noon did she look this disheveled. And Aryeh still thought she was beautiful.

Or, well, maybe Moses had a thing for the grunge look.

Madeleine followed him to a bench and realized that it was the one he’d shown her when they first met. His and Adrienne’s bench, with all the little “A”s carved into it. Madeleine’s heart clutched in her chest when she saw it. Often, when she walked along the Seine, she’d seek it out and sit there alone, running her long fingers over shaky, deep grooves and smooth, ancient ones. Aryeh’s unwavering love for his dead wife did something to Madeleine’s chest. She ached beautifully, wishing she could have met Adrienne and wondering if she would have been a stand-in mother as Aryeh was a stand-in father, worrying that Adrienne would have thought her too abrasive, too bitchy, to be worth anyone’s time. But mostly, itw as a sadness for Aryeh, that he had lived years without the woman he’d loved and who had loved him back. Unrequited love was nothing compared to loss of love.

Aryeh sat down and gestured to the spot beside him. “Won’t you have a sit with me, shaifeleh?”

“You know I will,” Madeleine said, sitting next to Aryeh. Gently, she put her head on his shoulder. His bones felt light and Madeleine wondered if Aryeh’s bones were hollow. She looked up at him.

“So why here today, tateh?” Madeleine asked, almost certain she’d know the answer.

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Aryeh Feldman

“You know I will,” Madeline said, putting her head in the nook between Aryeh’s neck and shoulder, which had, over the years, gone soft with time. But Aryeh swore that the sinew and bone that lie beneath it was just as good as any young man’s, even as they creaked and moaned from the weight of Madeleine’s pretty head.

She looked up at him, her dark eyes wide and glimmering in the afternoon sun. She looked so small, so young, and yet, Aryeh couldn’t ignore the fact that she was a grown woman. He felt a pride in her that he didn’t deserve to feel; he hadn’t raised her, though he loved her and treated her as his own, and he hadn’t created her, though he swore in some lights, she could have easily passed as Evelynne’s younger sister. Her eyes feigned ignorance as she looked at him knowingly. “So why here today, tateh?”

Aryeh’s free hand ran along the hallowed carvings of A’s that had weathered with time, but never neglect. As he touched each one, smoothened out now from the decades that worked away at them, he could remember vividly the time it was carved. Adrienne wore red—or was it blue?—and Aryeh lugged behind them an over-packed picnic basket laden with food they would never get around to eating. After their picnic, together they would sit on the grass, feeling the blades poking up between their toes and slowly, lovingly carve their initials into the bench. When they were finished, they would sit and talk, staring out into the Seine watching boats and the sunset. The bench in particular was chosen by Adrienne because “it was where the most ducks were.” There was no place on that brown bench left unexplored by Adrienne and Aryeh, and each carving signified a year. 58 little A’s were scrawled into the wood them, eight more were added by Aryeh alone after Adrienne died. Every May for the past 8 years he came here, lugging the picnic basket up that hill, eating alone, carving the initials with an arthritic, uneasy hand alone, and watched the boats and sunset until his eyes stung with tears. It was a homage to the memory of her and of the life they had together, and this year, that homage was not paid.

Aryeh didn’t move as swiftly as he once did, his footfalls were light and each one took more effort than the last. This year, he hadn’t made it this far to the bench in May, and the last time he tried, he got lost and ended up somewhere down by the Eiffel Tower. Of course he wouldn’t tell Madeleine that; she’d worry too much (though Aryeh could hardly see why. Everyone got lost from time to time).

Aryeh let out a sigh and draped his arm around Madeleine’s shoulder like a prayer shawl. “Adrienne and mine’s anniversary was back in May, and I never came down to carve in our initials,” his voice was laced with sadness, “but the way I figure it,” he said, his words sounding brighter than before, “I could turn it into something I could share with you. Adrienne would have loved you just as much as I do and we’d both be honoured if you carved them in today.” From his pocket, he procured a rusted knife, engraved with the same initials that littered the bench. “Here, use this.”

[The Exodus]

OOC: Gwendoline, meet Tristan. Do your best not to scare each other too badly, lovelies! BIC:

Tristan Vidal

It hadn’t been this cold when Tristan started the mural. Which, honestly, was weird if you thought about it, since Tristan began working on it before sunrise. But with sunrise came the cold front that wasn’t supposed to blow through the city for another two days. Weathermen. You couldn’t trust them. Tristan reached across his body to rub his arm and in the process accidentally smeared dark violet paint over his skin. It was a happy accident, since the paint was warm and it provided him a small layer of protection against the wind. It was always coldest down by the water, but bridges made the best canvases.

The mural in question comprised of a painted skull in the center of a field of purple flowers. The skull in question was based on one of several that lined the bookshelves of Tristan’s office. Monsieur Hendrix, as the skull was called, had been a gift from a former bandmate. Not a real skull, mind you, but a close enough approximation that only an expert would have been able to tell the difference. Tristan was an expert. A funeral director by day, he’d seen his share of skulls and bones. He’d also seen plenty of flowers in his time, too. Lilies, mostly. The flowers he’d painted weren’t based on really anything, except his imagination. Tristan refused to paint a skull surrounded by lilies. Not enough contrast. Not unusual enough to be interesting.

In fact, the only reason this piece would be of particular interest was because of the flowers. Tristan had painted dozens—maybe hundreds—of skulls. But flowers were different. And unlike the skull, the painted flowers were vibrant but about as unreal looking as you could get without veering off into the abstract. Some were lavender in color, others plum. The bright hues caught the eye; the beige skull held the gaze. It was perfectly eye-level, the skull. Or at least, it was eye level with Tristan, who stood at six foot tall while slouching. The skull’s eye sockets stared blankly into Tristan’s eyes. For a minute, Tristan imagined the skull was annoyed with him for taking so long to finish the flowers.

“Hurry it up,” Tristan imagined the skull to say. “Or you’ll get caught.”

“Oh, shut up,” Tristan hissed. “I’ll be finished in a minute. And stop scowling. Your face will get stuck that way, *sshole.”

And then he smiled, because the painting was set against stone. The skull’s face would be stuck that way until a group of volunteers scrubbed it away. Tristan put the final touches on the last flower and took a step back to admire his handiwork.

“You’re beautiful,” he said. “Absolutely gorgeous.”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Gwendoline Fontaine

Gwendoline woke up this morning to the sound of Torben bellowing. She had been having a rather pleasant dream about a cannibalistic colony of ants of which she was the queen as well as the exterminator when the sound of Torben’s loud cries shook her awake. “What in heaven’s name are you going on about?” she asked, accidently knocking over the video camera Torben set up to the ground with a clang.
“River water,” he said, pulling on a black and white striped sock. “It’s brilliant, absolutely brilliant. I need river water, Gwen. Please. Now, before I lose it,” he jabbed his temple with a hurried finger, pulling on a green sock with smiling shooting stars on it. With his socks now on, it was best not to disturb him, so Gwendoline complied, knowing full well he would make it up to her later as she pulled on the nearest article of clothing she could grab.

Emptied jam jar in hand, she peddled through the foggy streets of Paris to the Seine. If Torben was going to wake her up in the still of the morning to demand she get him river water, he was going to get the nastiest collection she could find. The Seine, what with its pollution and dead fish, would be home to the perfect specimen for whatever it was Torben needed.

Unscrewing the top and kneeling down on the cold, dewy grass, she heard the most peculiar spraying sound. Looking up, she found herself staring at the back of a man who seemed to be writing something on the smooth, grey underbelly of the bridge. Quietly, she snuck over for a closer look. Curiosity may have killed the cat, but Gwendoline was no feline, so she was, in theory, safe. At least, that’s what she told herself.

In the grey of the morning, she squinted through the early morning miasma for a better look. There, on the wall was a glorious painting of a skull and background of flowers. What detail! What grace! Gwendoline gasped. “Stop. Stop right there!” she called, running to him.

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

Tristan was only allowed a few seconds of admiration of his handiwork. After all, he usually had to high-tail it out of the area before cops or curious passersby caught him. He always savored those few moments—mere seconds, really—before cleaning up his cans of paint and heading to work.

But this time, Tristan’s clockwork admiration was cut short by a sudden voice.

“Stop!” the woman called out. “Stop right there!”

Tristan hazarded a quick look at his accuser. She wasn’t a cop—that’s about all he knew. And it was all he needed to know, honestly. If she wasn’t a cop, he still had half a hope of dashing off. But the woman was rushing toward him at such speeds that Tristan didn’t have time to collect his supplies. He took off into a sprint and promptly stepped on a can of white paint. The can rolled underneath his foot and sent Tristan flying until he lay face-down and sprawled-out on the concrete.

“Oh, sh*t,” he said, pushing himself up. By this point, the woman’s black mary-janes were right in front of Tristan’s eyes. He blinked as he sat up. “Listen, lady… I don’t want trouble. So it would be really great if you didn’t call the police…”

He looked up at her and felt kind of like an idiot. Here he was, twenty-eight years old and sitting on the cold, hard ground, practically begging a woman not to get him in trouble. He was a grown man and he wasn’t exactly small. All he would have to do was stand up and make some sort of show of being scary to shoo her away. But instead, Tristan felt too tall and too sheepish to do anything but try to smile up at her winsomely. Instead, his lip split—or maybe it had split when he hit the ground—and Tristan winced. Even if he had half a hope of looking charming under normal circumstances, he sure didn’t now.

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Gwendoline Fontaine

Much to Gwendoline’s dismay, the man bolted off. So she did what any one would do—she chased after him. She had to tell him, had to let him know that his work was good. She passed the skull painting now, getting a closer look at it. It really was mesmerizing. She grinned giddily. It reminded her of Torben’s first gift to her: a picture of her dead body, surrounded by gently falling snow. The present had been odd considering he had never spoken to her until then, but still incredibly beautiful. She had that picture framed and it now hung over her bed. Come to think of it, she’d like to take this part of the bridge home with her and hang it up next to that picture. They’d go well together.

The man slipped, falling prostrate to the ground with an audible thud. Faster, Gwendoline rushed to him to make sure he was okay. That looked painful.

“ Listen, lady… “ he said, pushing himself up. “I don’t want trouble. So it would be really great if you didn’t call the police…”

Gwendoline raised an eyebrow. “Call the police? Why would I do that?” She asked, offering him a hand. “I just wanted to tell you how great that work is,” she said, motioning to the bridge. “You should be really proud of it. I actually wanted to know if I could take a picture of it to show my husband? He lives for this sort of thing.”

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

Tristan could already imagine how this would go. The woman would scold him some for defacing centuries’ old architecture, tell him how ashamed he ought to be, and then—if he was lucky—not call the police as long as he promised never to tag another bridge again. A promise he’d gladly make and just as gladly break in a week or two. He’d be late for work and the viewing of Monsieur Sauvignon’s body. The widow would report him for unprofessionalism—because a split lip, Batman t-shirt, and purple-painted arm were akin to spitting on the corpse in his line of work.

And that would be if things went well.

If things didn’t go well, Tristan would have to call his uncle from jail to discuss bail and court dates and if there was one thing Old Laurence would lose his mind over, it would be that his grown nephew was still tagging bridges nearly thirteen years since Tristan swore off “delinquency”. And he’d still be late for work and the viewing and get in trouble with the Sauvignon family. He was on a fast track to losing business in the one industry where it was next to impossible to lose business.

“Call the police?” the woman said. She seemed genuinely surprised and she offered Tristan a hand. “Why would I do that?”

Warily, Tristan took it and pulled himself to his feet. He released the woman’s hand with a mumbled “thanks”.

“I just wanted to tell you how great that work is,” the woman continued. She gestured to Tristan’s mural. “You should be really proud of it. I actually wanted to know if I could take a picture of it to show my husband? He lives for this sort of thing.”

Tristan stared at the woman. Maybe she was crazy. You got a lot of crazies down by the bridges in the early morning. Homeless, old folk off their meds, and yuppie joggers. All crazy, in Tristan’s opinion. Maybe this woman in her rumpled grey dress, with her flyaway hair was crazy. Not that there was anything wrong with crazy.

But it wasn’t like Tristan had a following. People usually told him to stop painting on the sides of buildings or that they wished he could just draw normal things like a normal person instead of skulls and demons against backdrops of flowers. Yes, this woman had to be crazy. Her husband, too. The right kind of crazy, though. She was the kind of crazy who liked skulls and demons against backdrops of flowers. The kind of crazy that turned up at the Seine this early in the morning, while it was still cold enough to catch pneumonia just because it was still and peaceful and empty. The kind that Tristan could understand.

But even still, he couldn’t help but laugh. Split lip be damned, he laughed and he smiled. Tristan ran a hand through his long hair.

“You want to take a picture?” he asked, stunned. “I’ve never heard that one before. Sure. Go ahead. Wow. My first fan. What’s your name?”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Gwendoline Fontaine

The man looked confused and Gwendoline didn’t understand why. It wasn’t like she had asked him to eat his own arm or play Auld Lang Syne on the bagpipes or something. She asked if she could take a picture of his art. Was that really such a strange request? His busted lip split as he smiled, sending a fresh wave of blood to flow over where the old crimson liquid had congealed. And Gwendoline smiled, too.

“You want to take a picture?” He asked and Gwendoline nodded. “ “I’ve never heard that one before. Sure. Go ahead. Wow. My first fan. What’s your name?”

“Gwen. Doline.” She said, pulling out her phone. “Gwendoline. But people usually call me Gwen… sometimes.” She grabbed his sleeve and pushed him into frame to stand in front of the mural. “Oh Torben’s going to love this!” she exclaimed, her phone uttering a shutter sound.

“What’s your name? So I can know who it is I’m a fan of?”

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

“First fan” sounded pathetic once Tristan said it out loud, but it was true. He prodded his lip with his tongue. It tasted sharp and metallic. No one had ever been a fan of his art—certainly not of his murals. Or if they had, no one told Tristan.

“Gwen. Doline,” the woman said, pulling out her phone. “Gwendoline. But people usually call me Gwen… sometimes.”

Tristan ducked out of the way of Gwen-or-Gwendoline’s shot, but the woman grabbed his arm and pushed him back into frame. Suddenly, Tristan didn’t know what to do with his arms and he stood there, trying to smile. He was beyond happy, of course, but the longer they stood there, the longer local police had to catch up with them.

“Oh Torben’s going to love this!” Gwen said blithely, snapping her picture. For some reason, that made Tristan smile even more. Torben was probably the boyfriend who “lived for” Tristan’s sort of aesthetic. “What’s your name? So I can know who it is I’m a fan of?”

“I’m Tristan,” he said. Then, Tristan reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. From there, he procured a business card. It read “Vidal Funeral Services” in fancy script and had his name and phone number listed at the bottom. He offered it to Gwendoline. “And I’m not actually a career artist. Well, not technically, anyways. What do you do, Gwen-or-Gwendoline?”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Gwendoline Fontaine

"I'm Tristian," the man said, placing a business card in her hands, but she waited to look at it. "And I'm not actually a career artist. Well not technically anyway," he said. But Gwendoline saw no difference. An art was an art, regardless of pay. That was something Torben . There were literally hundreds of pieces he had done and put in storage, never to be sold or seen. But it was still art, a manifestation of his glorious imagination. "what is it you do, Gwen-or-Gwendoline?"

"Today, apparently, I've been commissioned to collect river water for my apparently nocturnal boyfriend," she said, shaking her empty jam jar. "But typically, I'm a pastry chef." She looked now at the card she held in her hand and peered at the fancy, swirly print. Vidal Funeral Service it read and Gwendoline's face lit up. "You work here? Torben loves it there! Well, he's never actually been, but he dreams of going for a body study. Especially now that the morgue won't let him go anymore."

That had been her fault, actually. Often, they would visit the putrid smelling human refrigerator so Torben could sketch. That was until Gwendoline dropped a human skull that was under examination. It would be great if this guy could get them into the funeral home for a little study session. Gwendoline would even promise to sit out.

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

"Today, apparently, I've been commissioned to collect river water for my apparently nocturnal boyfriend," Gwendoline said, sounding more than a little irritated. "But typically, I'm a pastry chef."

She’d mentioned her boyfriend a couple times now, which Tristan thought was weird. Did she think he was going to hit on her or something? He hadn’t so far; he wasn’t a creep. Tristan wondered what the woman’s standards of “creep” were, since she was collecting polluted river water for a “nocturnal” boyfriend. He wondered what the river water was for. And then Tristan remembered that Gwendoline had said that her boyfriend lived for art like Tristan’s. A pastry chef and an art aficionado? That had to be one creative relationship…

"You work here?” Gwendoline asked. She pulled Tristan from his wandering thoughts and she held up the business card with a look of excitement. “Torben loves it there! Well, he's never actually been, but he dreams of going for a body study. Especially now that the morgue won't let him go anymore."

Tristan stared incredulously at Gwendoline. Torben—her boyfriend—“lived for” Tristan’s artistic aesthetic and his day job? Damn, he’d have to meet this guy. Great minds and all that. He was intrigued, to say the least, about his new companion and her unseen beau.

“Give me a call sometime,” Tristan said. “You and your boyfriend are plenty welcome. I might be able to hook you guys up with a tour and demonstration.”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Gwendoline Fontaine

The more she talked about Torben, the better she felt. Singing his praises reminded her that when she was done with this chore of river water collecting, she would be going home to a rare find of a man. Sure, he woke up at ungodly hours and made unbearable coffee, but he was kind and sincere and creative. And his shaking her awake this morning was a blessing in disguise. If she hadn’t trudged down here to fill an empty jam jar with yellowish pollution, she never would have witnessed this expression of art unfold before her eyes…

“Give me a call sometime. You and your boyfriend are plenty welcome. I might be able to hook you guys up with a tour and demonstration.”

… and she wouldn’t have gotten this VIP pass into the afterlife. She felt invincible.

But before she could thank him, a voice that wasn’t her own came from somewhere unseen.

“Hey! Hey! You there!”

Gwendoline looked for the source and saw a police officer running towards them.

“Oh, Jesus. It’s you again, Vidal. This is the last straw.” He pulled out a pen and began scribbling a ticket. In calm arrogance, he continued. “I want this painted over by Monday, Vidal. No more warnings. This is a felony. You do realize there’s a fine and—“[/b]

But Gwendoline couldn’t bear to hear him continue. “Excuse me, officer, but he can’t paint over it. He did nothing wrong.” It was appalling that someone who was supposed to care about the city wanted something so beautiful to disappear and deem it punishable. “It’s a… a project.” She lied. “He’s a student of my husband’s. Torben Blau. Maybe you’ve heard of him? Anyway, this was an assignment. Something about a unique canvas and medium... public art. Some artist jargon I don’t understand. Regardless, he’s my husband’s student and I ask you respect his lessons.” She was lying through her teeth.

“Prove it,” the officer said, showering her with spittle. “Call him on that fancy phone of yours.”

“I would love to, officer, but my husband’s a very busy man. He had his socks on now and can’t take any calls.”

“I don’t know what that means.” He said, his moustache moving more than his mouth did.

“It means he can’t be bothered. Please go away.”

When the officer turned to look at the mural, Gwendoline winked at Tristan. She was happy to get him out of this, and if Torben was here, he’d be just as eager. They saw themselves as vigilantes in a way, crusaders defending and saving art in every way they could. Lying to the law was just a part of the job.