The Seine River

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

Embalming was a rarity in France. Tristan’s funeral parlor was one of only a small handful that provided that service in addition to funeral spaces and cremation. Members of the press, like buzzards to carrion, hovered around the place, salivating to get just a peek at what went on behind closed doors. Tristan had never given them the satisfaction. But he rather liked this Gwendoline woman; she seemed trustworthy. And the more she talked about her boyfriend, as annoying as it was at first, the more Tristan wanted to meet him. They would be the first to whom he opened his doors.

But before Gwendoline could respond, a very familiar voice filled the air.

“Hey! Hey! You there!”

Tristan’s smile fell from his lips. He went entirely rigid as Officier Maisel approached from somewhere unseen. Maisel always seemed to be the one to catch Tristan in the act of tagging; it was like the older man had a radar that went off every time Tristan was within a hundred yards of a can of spray paint. Tristan could usually outrun him, but with Gwendoline there…

“Oh, Jesus. It’s you again, Vidal. This is the last straw.” Maisel pulled out a pen and a ticket and began to write. This would be a third citation—a felony. A real crime. A serious thing. Tristan’s pulse raced. He would go to jail, lose his business, lose his apartment, and be stuck in a world where artists were made into prison b*tches and funeral directors were in high demand for reasons Tristan didn’t want to think about-- “I want this painted over by Monday, Vidal. No more warnings. This is a felony. You do realize there’s a fine and—“

Oh. A fine. He could handle a fine. Court wasn’t fun, per se, but it was better than prison… But even still, he would have to go to court—him, at twenty-eight years old—and plead “no contest” since there were witnesses and his record was stacked against him.

“Excuse me, officer,” Gwendoline said. “But he can’t paint over it. He did nothing wrong.”

Tristan stared at her, eyes bugged out of his skull. Was this woman for real? He was flattered, sure, but was she really going to stand there and argue with the police for him? Him, a total stranger? Him, a guy who was practically a felon thanks to years and years of doing the same sh*t and expecting the law to change?

Maisel seemed just as surprised as Tristan. His bushy brows shot up his forehead.

“It’s a… a project,” Gwendoline continued. “He’s a student of my husband’s. Torben Blau. Maybe you’ve heard of him?”

Even if Maisel hadn’t, Tristan sure had. His jaw went slack and sawed from side to side as he tried to get his bearings. The boyfriend Gwendoline kept talking about was Torben Blau. THE Torben Blau. Tristan followed the man’s work religiously. There was this glorious mural Blau had done for the city to commemorate the heat wave. Tristan liked to take his lunch over there and stare at it while on break. It was usually just him and the crazy bag ladies and the pigeons, but oh how he loved that mural.

Which meant that this woman wasn’t just Gwen-or-Gwendoline. She was Torben Blau’s wife. The woman seen in photographs smiling while Blau looked wickedly uncomfortable at art expos.

[b“Anyway,”[/b] Gwendoline continued. “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.”

It would have been an honor to be Torben Blau’s student. And suddenly, it dawned on Tristan that if they got out of this mess—or rather, if he got out of this mess thanks to Gwendoline—Torben Blau would be visiting his funeral home. His stomach swooped. Torben Blau wanted to a body study in his embalming room!

“Prove it,” Maisel said. “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,” said Maisel. Tristan didn’t either. All he knew was that he owed a blood debt to the Blau family right now. He wished he could sit down and process this.

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

Maisel did not go away. Instead he looked at Tristan’s mural. Tristan looked over at Gwendoline and mouthed “Thank you” to her. She winked back.

“Officer Maisel,” Tristan said carefully. “If I need to apply for a permit to paint, I’ll do it. Just point me to the courthouse and—“

“I think you know the way by now, Vidal,” Maisel said, not looking at him. He shook his head. “Always with the skulls and the roaches with you… You and Monsieur Blau will make quite a pair.”

“I have a lot to learn from him,” Tristan said—this time truthfully. “He’s a genius.”

“Maybe he’ll teach you the difference between defacing public property and real art,” Maisel said, turning around. “Paint this over by Monday. Get that permit. And don’t let me see you tagging again.”

“Believe me, sir.” Tristan smirked. “You won’t see me tagging anymore.”

I won’t let you catch me.

Maisel wandered off eventually, shaking his head all the while. Only once the cop was out of earshot, did Tristan breathe again.

“Your Torben is Torben Blau?” he asked, whirling on Gwendoline. “The Torben Blau? Or was that just some dog-and-pony show for Maisel?”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Gwendoline Fontaine

Really, Gwendoline was glad to help. If art was vanquished from society, humans would be soulless zombies, roaming the earth and feeding off rules and consuming every happy emotion in existence. Torben had depicted that world in a painting once. It was terrifying and Gwendoline was not about to let that portrait come to life by staring where she could step in.

“Officer Maisel, if I need to apply for a permit to paint, I’ll do it. Just point me to the courthouse and—“ But Tristan was cut off by the officer who seemed to have a volatile temper resembling that of a small, but lethal explosive.

“I think you know the way by now, Vidal.” It was like watching a ping pong match between the two of them and Gwendoline felt her neck muscles cramp up from the exertion. She massaged it discreetly as to not disrupt them further. “Always with the skulls and the roaches with you… You and Monsieur Blau will make quite a pair.”

Gwendoline smiled. It was true. If she could convince Torben to teach this man, maybe he’d actually go out of the house for more than a gallery and the occasional grocery shopping trip.

“I have a lot to learn from him. He’s a genius.”

That barely covered it. Torben wasn’t just a genius, he was her genius and she was his muse. She was practically beaming now, grinning giddily from ear to ear. How could she be angry now?

“Maybe he’ll teach you the difference between defacing public property and real art,” the officer said, and Gwendoline had to bite back a laugh. It was doubtful Torben would teach him that. The streets of Vienna were once covered by original Blau pieces, now painted over by scouts and criminals trying to get their community service hours out of the way. If only they knew what Torben would become… The cop continued. “Paint this over by Monday. Get that permit. And don’t let me see you tagging again.”

“Believe me, sir. You won’t see me tagging anymore.”

Gwendoline knew that secret smirk. It was the same one she and Gabriel gave their principal when he caught them trading outfits and class schedules for a laugh. It was the same one Torben gave her when he was sharing a silent inside joke with his other self, leaving her out of the loop, wondering.

Eventually, the cop meandered away until he became little more than the background. Tristan turned on her.

“Your Torben is Torben Blau? The Torben Blau? Or was that just some dog-and-pony show for Maisel?”

Gwen laughed. “Don’t let him hearing you call him ‘The Torben Blau’. His head’ll get so big I won’t be able to fit him through the bedroom door. Here,” she said, pulling up a picture on her phone. There they stood, tongues hanging out of their mouths as they stood in front of ‘The Death Wave’ Mural at its reveal. She was younger then, and so was he. He had more hair, she had less thigh. But it was definitely them.

“Proof enough for you?”

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

Gwen laughed. A faint blush dusted Tristan’s cheeks. Of course her Torben was the Torben Blau. It made sense now that the man “lived for” this aesthetic; he’d been inspirational during Tristan’s late teens and on. There were echoes of—neither outright imitations of or intentional dialogues with—Blau’s work in every piece Tristan created. He suddenly felt very cheap and very unprofessional. Embarrassed.

“Don’t let him hearing you call him ‘The Torben Blau’,” said Gwen. “His head’ll get so big I won’t be able to fit him through the bedroom door. Here.”


She scrolled through her phone for a moment before showing Tristan a picture of herself in front of “The Death Wave”. To her left (or rather, her right and to Tristan’s left) was a man with wild, dark hair. Both their tongues hung from their mouths playfully; and the picture looked a little old—but not so old that Gwen was unrecognizable.

And the man at her side was without a doubt Torben Blau.

Tristan had seen him only once in real life. He’d gone to an art gallery in the heart of the city and stood on the fringe of the crowd, watching as Torben Blau talked about his creative process to media and aspiring artists. As in the picture, his hair flew in all directions, seemingly without gel or wind to hold it there and the same hound dog eyes that sparked with wicked amusement behind tired circles.


“Proof enough for you?” Gwen asked.

Tristan nodded, still speechless. His hero’s wife turned out to be his hero. How was that for irony? He didn’t know if he wanted to laugh or if he wanted to tell Gwen about the book of Torben’s art that he kept in his office beside his copy of the Bardo Thodol.

Tristan let out a shaky breath. His mouth spread to a wide grin.

“It would be an honor to have you both visit my funeral home,” Tristan said at long last. “Both of you. You have no idea… I owe you, Gwen. I owe you a whole lot. Please. Come by. Any time.”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Gwendoline Fontaine

Gwendoline really got a thrill out of showing off Torben. He was exceptionally talented with a paintbrush (in more ways than one, she liked to point out), incredibly kind, and casually brilliant. But the best thing about bragging about him was that it embarrassed Torben and his ears would turn fuchsia and he’d hide behind her like a timid child gripping at his mother’s skirts. And when they’d return home, he’d paint like mad until his embarrassment subsided and in the place where a blank canvas stood, would be yet another breathtaking masterpiece.

So seeing Tristan’s excitement left Gwendoline feeling victorious, but seemed to leave her new companion immobilized. Her smile suddenly faltered and she wondered if he was alright.

Eventually, he nodded. “It would be an honor to have you both visit my funeral home. Both of you. You have no idea… I owe you, Gwen. I owe you a whole lot. Please. Come by. Any time.”

“How about tonight?” Gwendoline suggested. By then, Torben would have his river water and his artwork would probably be done (or forgotten about as was often the case with these early morning epiphanies) and Gwendoline would be done at work. “And then, if you want, afterward, we can go get some coffee or something,” She offered. Just as long as it wasn’t made by Torben. If they gave Tristan that horrendous tar-like drink, Torben would likely find himself falling out of Tristan’s favour. “Does that sound okay?”

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

When Tristan said “any time”, he meant it. So when Gwendoline said “How about tonight?”, there was no way Tristan could say “no”. What else was he going to do tonight, anyways? Besides make dinner for one and clean out Isolde’s water dish?

Somehow, showing his artistic hero and personal savior around the funeral home seemed much more appealing than Tristan’s original plans. He would, of course, have to hide his copy of the Torben Blau art book, though. He didn’t want his inner-fanboy to show too much.

Besides, there would be so many other things to show the Blaus tonight. There would be new bodies in the embalming room and the viewing room would be prepped for tomorrow’s first service. This afternoon, Tristan actually had to pick up a body for a family from the local morgue. Maybe he would hold off on the embalming process so he could show Torben and Gwendoline death in a raw state. He’d have to see what condition the deceased was in, of course. Bodies never did look like they did in crime scene television in the real world. They were sadder, more gruesome. And Tristan knew that it could be construed as disrespectful to show an entirely un-embalmed body to a stranger.

“And then, if you want,” Gwendoline continued. “Afterward, we can go get some coffee or something. Does that sound okay?”

“It sounds perfect,” Tristan said. “Our last planned service is tonight at five.”

Technically, Tristan was on call twenty-four hours a day. Death was indiscriminate and would have made for a lousy guest. Death showed up fashionably late and ungodly early, forcing Tristan to drop whatever he was doing and hurry off to comfort grieving widows and sew up dearly beloved sons. The last time he’d been on a date, the whole thing had gone south because Death swaggered in and demanded Tristan leave that instant. He’d been interrupted with urgent calls in the dead of night, while on vacation, while visiting his uncle in the hospital, and once while in the hospital himself for slicing his hand open with a scalpel. But if Tristan tried to schedule his life around other people’s deaths, he wouldn’t get very much living done at all. Better to agree to meet up than to let opportunity pass him by. Besides, if anyone would understand, it would be the Blaus.

“Actually, it’s a public viewing,” Tristan said. “Just come by a little before five to get your seats. Nothing sets the mood for a tour of a funeral home quite like a funeral.”

As he spoke, his phone rang. A high-pitched, whistling version of “Bolero” played. Tristan pulled it out of his jeans’ pockets and pulled a face. The caller ID said “Vidal Funeral Services” and Tristan could already imagine Solange’s irritated voice on the line. He let the call go to voicemail, where his secretary would leave a message nearly identical to all the others filling up his inbox.

Where are you? she’d say in her breathy voice.

She was twenty-two and had only been Tristan’s secretary for the last six months. She was nothing like Tristan’s last secretary, Jacqueline. Jacqui had been a woman in her late seventies when Tristan hired her and she’d been no-nonsense about everything, except Tristan who she indulged like a grandson. She didn’t understand his art, didn’t like it either, but she didn’t complain when he was out tagging in the early morning. When she’d died last fall, Tristan had gone months without replacing her. His way of grieving, he guessed. He’d performed the funeral service himself, of course. It was the only funeral at which he felt like crying. If Solange dropped dead right now, Tristan didn’t know if he’d be any more affected than if she was any other decedent coming through his funeral parlor. But she was Jacqui’s granddaughter and it was out of respect for her that Tristan kept Solange around.

“My secretary,” he said, shaking his head and looking up. He smiled. “I’m going to catch hell when I get back to work.”

Tristan bent at the waist and picked up his paint cans. He cradled the empty aluminum in his arms; he’d recycle them before heading to the funeral home.

“Come to the service if you can make it,” he said to Gwendoline. “If not, that’s fine. Just tell the girl at the front you guys are friends of mine. She’ll take care of you.”

That’ll shock her, Tristan couldn’t help but think glumly. Friends and family did not visit him at work. But visitors were all made comfortable in the parlour and offered beverages, a box of Kleenex, and a GPL: a tradition of Jacqui’s that Tristan demanded Solange maintain.

Tristan shifted the cans to one arm, where the nestled precariously. He took Gwendoline’s hand and shook it.

“I can’t wait until tonight, Gwendoline. Honestly, it’s an honor to know you.”

[The Exodus]

OOC: Tristange! BIC:

Tristan Vidal

Since inspection, there had been surprisingly little to do at work. Tristan was able to take slices of time for himself again. He’d spent a few hours at the education center this week, sitting with the art class and talking to the kids while working on his own sketch.

“That’s not what you usually draw,” Marius said.

Marius was eleven. He had dark brown hair, hazel eyes, and half a zillion freckles. He also had an alcoholic mother who would sometimes leave him to his own devices for a few days at a time. He was Tristan’s art buddy and hadn’t spoken to him since the session started. Tristan assumed Marius hadn’t forgiven him for missing out on sessions lately. Not that he could blame him. The kid didn’t know about health inspections or faulty transmissions in cars. He knew about people leaving and not coming back, poor kid. Marius craned his neck, staring pointedly at Tristan’s sketch.

“Do you like it?” Tristan asked.

Marius shrugged. “It’s okay. Not as cool as the zombies you drew last time.”

“They weren’t zombies,” Tristan said. “And anyways, I like this one better.”

“Why?” Marius wrinkled his nose. “Because it’s a girl?”

Tristan looked at the drawing. It was, in fact, a girl. A more realistic sketch – more like a portrait, really – than what he usually did. He smiled and said, “Yeah. It’s a girl.”

“A real girl?” Marius asked. “Your girlfriend?”

“No,” Tristan said quietly. “Not my girlfriend. But she is real.”

“That’s dumb,” Marius said. “You shouldn’t draw real girls unless they’re your girlfriend.”

He didn’t elaborate, but turned back to his own drawing of a dragon, which Tristan complimented him on. Marius smiled and added shading to the dragon’s large, almond-shaped eyes. Tristan returned to his sketch of the girl.

His sketch of Solange.

Tristan figured that if he could get his feelings out in art, he wouldn’t have to try to use words to articulate them. And if he could paint his feelings, they’d go away. They’d be some canvas’ problem; some viewer’s inspiration. And he would be free to return to his blissfully unfettered life where he didn’t worry about Solange’s smile or see her when he shut his eyes at night.

He wanted to make her happy. He wanted her to notice him. He sought her out when he used to content himself with a sort of parallel play in the workplace. Yesterday, he’d been driving back from a service and an unfamiliar song came on the radio and his first thought had been of her. And Tristan hated every second of it. It was going to drive him crazy.

She was happier than he’d seen her in the last several months, but she didn’t notice him. And Tristan refused to be one of those guys who wallowed about in a state because of that. He had no right to expect anything from Solange, except that she do her job at the funeral home. He had no reason to expect anything else from her – not even friendship. That she would sometimes joke with him, that she liked him enough to eat lunch with him occasionally, that they’d hugged twice was kind of like a miracle. And none of that should have meant more to Tristan than face value. But it did and that needed to stop. So last night, he’d wandered around Paris after dusk, trying to find a better canvas than some dinky scrap paper.

He’d worked all through the night, painting his vision of her on the side of a bridge as what he hoped would be a farewell testament to his crush on Solange. Because it was pathetic, the way he would linger at her desk for a few extra seconds after they’d finished talking, just so he could smile at her. It was sad that he’d attached to her so quickly. It was amazing how dependent he was on Solange to run day-to-day business; he shouldn’t have needed her to keep his life turning after hours.

So Tristan figured if he painted Solange, he’d get her out of his system. He needed to. He had to get on with his life, get over the girl he couldn’t – shouldn’t – be with.

Even if she hadn’t been his secretary, Solange de Grace was all wrong for Tristan.

Solange had this annoying habit of always being right. Not always needing to be right – although there was that, too – but always actually being right. Which meant that Tristan was usually wrong. And she made sure he knew it. She was smart; he knew that. Admired that about her. What was she trying to prove, anyways?

Solange also had this maddening tic. She’d bite her lip when she was thinking and Tristan would end up looking, watching… Staring, really. He knew he shouldn’t stare. Staring was rude. Hell, staring was creepy. It wasn’t like he would do anything besides look. And sometimes imagine what her lips would feel like… Which was probably still creepy, or at the very least unprofessional.

Solange was caught up on Caleb What’s-His-Face. “Mr. Popularity” from Cambridge. Oh, sure, she’d turned him down last month. But Tristan wasn’t going to be her rebound. No way. He cared too much about her to be some pathetic substitute for the guy she’d rather be with. He wanted her to be happy and when things inevitably fell apart between them, she wouldn’t be happy at all. And neither would he. They’d just be two people, more miserable and more f*cked up than they were right now. They’d see each other at work or she’d resign and that would be the end of everything.

Besides, she probably wouldn’t even consider him as the rebound guy, anyways.

Because Solange de Grace wasn’t just smart. She was gorgeous and funny and just absolutely everything. She deserved a Mr. Popularity who made her laugh, who could keep up with her, who looked good on her arm. And Tristan was a total geek. There was no other word for him, with paint splattered shoes and his stupid, long hair and his collection of morbid puns. He was a funeral director, not prince charming. Nothing said “Happily Ever After” like driving off into the sunset in a hearse.

They’d almost had a date the other day. And that had probably been what pushed Tristan over the edge. It would have been romantic – lobster, flowers, low lighting – if it hadn’t been in the parlor of the funeral home and if Gwen hadn’t set the whole thing up. Gwen had even caught Tristan staring at Solange. It kind of made Tristan feel three hundred times more pathetic than he usually did about this whole Solange thing. And he’d painted the mural to feel less pathetic. And it had worked thus far. Well. Sort of.

Today, Tristan had embalmed three bodies and conducted two services. He’d had a brief conversation with Solange, during which he kept his eyes fixed on hers, and tried not to think about anything but the topic at hand.

And despite all of his hard work, despite his dogged attempt to be “over” Solange, after the second service, Tristan found himself walking alongside her in search of lunch. They’d sworn to go for lunch together again after having such good times the last two times. But it wasn’t a date. It was professional. It was also very quiet. Tristan had his hands in his pockets and he huddled inward under his slouchy, black coat. He had the urge to ask Solange something serious but instead, he looked at his shoes. There were still a few streaks of paint on them that he hadn’t managed to scrub off after painting the mural. A little red, a little blue. The paint stood out against the black leather – against Tristan’s all black ensemble, actually – and he told himself that it was as fascinating as asking Solange to come with him to the funeral director’s conference in Marseilles this summer or asking her what her plans for Valentine’s Day were.

Determined to be less awkward than he’d been every time they were alone together he looked up and asked her, “What did you ever do about that cat we found in the garage? You never said.”

But if Tristan was looking up, paying attention as he should be, he would have noticed where they were. He would have been busy steering conversation and Solange in the other direction quickly. Because they were headed directly for the very bridge he’d painted last night and there would be no way to keep things from getting weird.

Weirder than normal, anyways.

[blueeyeddevil]

Solange de Grace

Ever since the night at Batofar, Solange had to admit that things had been becoming much more comfortable between her and Tristan. After the initial awkwardness involved with spilling your love life to your boss, she was surprised by how easy it had been to confide something like that in him. Then the way he had been so supportive after her melt down when Caleb had called had left her surprised as well. It was times like those she felt like she was seeing more to Tristan than what he showed the world. It was times like those that had her feeling like he was to be considered more than just her boss, He was her friend now. A friend who could frustrate her beyond belief sometimes, but her friend none the less.

She found herself actually looking forward to the lunch they had planned. Lunch at the Bistro last time had been surprisingly fun. She'd enjoyed the rather brief lunch they'd had in the lobby a few days ago as well. She sincerely thought that they were beginning to shock themselves with how well they actually could get along if they tried. Usually it seemed like one or both of them were trying to be sarcastic and their guards would go up. But when they actually sat and talked like civilized people, they actually had a decent time.

She was trying to think of some good places that might be up ahead when Tristan spoke up. “What did you ever do about that cat we found in the garage? You never said.”

Solange smiled a little guiltily, glancing away from him now. She had told him she was planning to take the cat to an animal shelter but in the end she hadn't had the heart to. Instead she had taken it to a local vet to get checked out and gotten cat food on the way home, essentially adopting the thing as her own. Lilly even had a lovely little bed and litter box of her own now. Solange knew how typically girly it was going to sound for her to have adopted a stray cat and it slightly embarrassed her. Somehow she doubted she would be embarrassed if it were anyone but Tristan.

"Ummmm..." she began, still not meeting his gaze. "You know how I started calling her Lilly? I think that maybe I shouldn't have done that." She met his gaze and gave a laugh. "I decided to keep her. I really was planning to take her to the shelter the next morning but then...I just couldn't. I don't know what happened. I just suddenly found myself buying Fancy Feast."

Her eyes suddenly caught a large splash of color against what would be an otherwise gray bridge just beyond Tristan's shoulder. It was a large mural of woman who somehow looked strikingly familiar. The lines were fuzzy, blurring it a bit. Still the painting was incredible!

She paused where she was . "Tristan, look," she cried out, moving over towards the mural. "Look at this mural. That girl looks so familiar...I just can't place it." She glanced over at Tristan now. "She look familiar to you?"

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

Solange smiled, hanging her head as she did. Tristan stopped walking to look at her better. But somehow, he could kind of guess where this was headed and a smirk pulled his lips apart.

"Ummmm... You know how I started calling her Lilly? I think that maybe I shouldn't have done that."

She met Tristan’s gaze and he couldn’t help but laugh. When Solange had first called the cat by a name, Tristan’s spine had locked up. You didn’t name things unless you planned to get attached. But now, he felt a secret sort of relief that the demon cat who had torn up their funeral home could possibly be tamed. And if anyone could tame a wildcat, it was Solange. Solange laughed, too.

"I decided to keep her. I really was planning to take her to the shelter the next morning but then...I just couldn't. I don't know what happened. I just suddenly found myself buying Fancy Feast."

“That’s purr-fect,” Tristan said, still laughing.

The cat had been so taken with Solange – not that Tristan could blame it, since he knew the feeling well. It was nice to hear that someone had gotten a happy ending after all the destruction in the embalming room from the cat’s – Lilly’s – escapade. But Solange didn’t say anything. She didn’t even roll her eyes and groan at Tristan’s pun. Instead, she stopped moving and looked just beyond Tristan’s shoulder. Up. Her eyes were large, perplexed. The greyish water from the Seine swam around in them, making them look stormier than usual.

You’re staring again.

"Tristan, look!" Solange said, walking past Tristan towards whatever her eyes had been fixed on.

Tristan turned around lazily. And then he went from slouching comfortably to standing as straight and rigid as he could. His mural. His mural of Solange. It was there, bold and bright as dawn. The warm colors that had so beautifully contrasted with the grey of the water and of the bridge and of the February snow sent searing heat to Tristan’s ears. He was a dead man. In vain, Tristan scuffed his shoes against the cobbled stones, hoping to scratch off the remaining paint from them.

"Look at this mural,” Solange said. “That girl looks so familiar...I just can't place it."

Solange looked at Tristan. He felt queasy with relief. She didn’t recognize herself. And then, indignant. She didn’t recognize herself?! What had he done wrong? That mural was his magnum opus – or well, it was his best piece so far – or so he had thought. Clearly it wasn’t good enough. And now that Solange was looking at him and Tristan was considering jumping into the freezing Seine to cool off, he knew that the painting hadn’t cured him of anything.

"She look familiar to you?" Solange asked.

“Nope!” Tristan said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Never seen her before in my life.”

He looked at the real Solange right now and he tried to smile a toothy and innocent looking smile. But Tristan thought that maybe he might look rabid and he shook it away. He took a few steps towards the mural and he traced his fingers against the stone. The last time he’d been this close to the mural, he’d been putting the finishing touches on Solange’s eyes. Well, mural Solange. Not real Solange… Eyes were notoriously hard to draw, to make match. Tristan had taken extra special care of his painting’s eyes, desperate to capture the windows to Solange’s soul. He stole a look over his shoulder at Solange’s real and devastating eyes. And then he looked back. A small, disappointed frown creased his face. In the dim lamplight, Tristan had thought he’d done Solange justice. He hadn’t. It was so painfully obvious in the light of day that the brush strokes were over-hasty. That the color scheme had been influenced more by his raw, red emotions than by proper aesthetic. Tristan puckered his lips. But even if it wasn’t perfect, looking at his painting of Solange now, touching it, twisted him up inside. Those eyes he’d made were f*cking perfect. Spot-on.

“But art is representational, y’know?” he said softly. “Like, I don’t know who this girl is, but I’ll tell you this much. The artist – whoever he is… or she, I guess – has got it bad for the subject.”

[blueeyeddevil]

Solange de Grace

Solange stared at the girl in the painting, trying to figure out where she knew her from. She also couldn't help but wonder who it was that had painted it. Each stroke of the brush seemed so carefully placed and the features, though hazy, were so wonderfully drawn. They had a lot of talent and a lot of passion for what they did. Honestly, while she knew the police would probably see it differently, she didn't understand how something like this could be considered vandalism. Paris was supposed to be an artistic city. This was just art that happened to be on public property.

She asked Tristan if he recognized the girl in the mural, wanting some insight. “Nope!” Tristan said quickly as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Never seen her before in my life.” He gave a wide smile and she watched for a moment as went up to the painting, fingers tracing it with the utmost care. “But art is representational, y’know?” he said quietly. “Like, I don’t know who this girl is, but I’ll tell you this much. The artist – whoever he is… or she, I guess – has got it bad for the subject.”

It sounded like he was talking from experience. She's had her suspicions before. Tristan would often come in to work, overly tired and asking for caffeine of some sort. He'd show up with paint under his nails or on the bottom of his shoes. It seemed obvious now that he must be doing something similar. She smiled in satisfaction to herself, glad to have a definite answer to the mystery that was not so much a mystery.

She gazed at the painting again. The more she looked at it the more familiar the woman seemed. Eventually it was almost like....looking in a mirror. She paused then, glancing at the watch on the woman's wrist. She looked down at the exact same watch on her own wrist. The watch her grandmother had left her when she passed away and had a crack in the face of it like the one in the painting. It all clicked now. She couldn't see it any other way.

"That's...that's me," she said in shock. Her eyes were wide as she stared at the painting that no longer seemed blurred, but was now in sharp focus. "Someone painted this of me! I can't believe I didn't see it before." She found herself suddenly smiling, giggling a little. "This is incredible. This is amazing..."

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

Tristan looked from the mural to the very real Solange standing beside him. She seemed entranced by the painting. Fixated, enamored even. If he hadn’t already been infatuated with her, Tristan would have sworn he was falling in love with her right now. Her eyes – her perfect, slender eyes – were drinking in everything laid out before her, as if the mural were some particularly fine wine, worth probing and savoring before swallowing. No one, not even Gwen, looked at Tristan’s art that way. And then – as if finding a fly in her Chardonnay – Solange halted. She glanced at the portrait’s arm and then down at her own. And then back again.

"That's...that's me," she said suddenly.

Tristan’s throat clenched shut. He’d been found out. This was the end of everything. He hadn’t said anything in words and he never would. He’d murdered his chances with Solange – slim as they were – in several deft brushstrokes.

"Someone painted this of me!” Solange said again. “I can't believe I didn't see it before."

Tristan stared at her, expecting her to round on him and demand answers he wasn’t ready to give. But instead, Solange smiled and began to giggle.

"This is incredible. This is amazing..." she said almost breathlessly.

And the compliments made Tristan melt a little more inside. He looked at Solange softly. Incredible. Amazing. Two words Solange would not use if he stepped forward now and told her that the mural was his handiwork. Imagine how fast her world would come shattering down around her ears. The realization that she was not some nameless artist’s muse, but the inspiration behind her boss’ latest misadventure in vandalism would snatch that smile from Solange’s lips. Leave her cold. And as much as it pained him, Tristan shook his head.

“You think so?” he asked. He took a step back and studied the painting. It was Solange, all right. Unmistakably her. From the perfect, long-lashed eyes to the broken watch, to the tendril of hair that wound down the side of her face and was forever coming loose when she pulled it back. But Tristan couldn’t say that. Not unless he wanted Solange to realize who had painted the mural and think Tristan was a total creep. He swallowed hard. “I don’t see it.”

[blueeyeddevil]

Solange de Grace

The realization that the woman in the painting was her; that someone had had thought enough of her to want to paint her was still a slight shock to her. Obviously it was incredibly flattering, seeing herself painted up there on the bridge, the subject of someone's art. It was well done too! She had a hard time believing she hadn't seen it right away. It seemed so obvious to her now. There was so much detail in the painting too. Whoever had painted this had to be someone she spent a lot of time around.

She told her suspicions to Tristan and deflated just a bit when he shook his head. “You think so?” he asked, stepping back to look at the painting again as if trying to get where she was seeing herself in the woman depicted. “I don’t see it.” he told her and for a moment all she could do was look at him, shocked.

"Are you serious? How can you not see it," she asked, voice full of conviction now. She knew that the painting was of her and nothing was going to convince her otherwise. "Look at her eyes! Those are my eyes. And her watch has a crack in the face just like mine does! The same watch that my grandmother gave me when she passed away. It's definitely me. I just don't know who it was that painted it."

She studied the mural a moment longer, trying to see if she recognized the style at all. Honestly she couldn't think of anyone she knew that was even an artist...except Tristan. Her gaze suddenly landed on his shoes, still slightly splattered with red and blue, the same shades used in the mural they were looking at. Her jaw dropped for a moment, looking at him in complete shock. "Tristan, did you paint this?" she asked softly.

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

If Tristan had known lying to Solange about his artwork would be physically painful, he wouldn’t have painted the mural in the first place. He ached, just behind the eyes, in his shoulders, his tight jaw. He could feel blood surging under his skin and all he could do to keep from blushing was dig his fingers into his palms to distract himself.

"Are you serious? How can you not see it?” Solange asked. Tristan offered a wan smile that didn’t meet his eyes. Solange spoke up again. "Look at her eyes! Those are my eyes. And her watch has a crack in the face just like mine does! The same watch that my grandmother gave me when she passed away. It's definitely me. I just don't know who it was that painted it."

Tristan dug his nails harder into his palms. He knew those were her eyes, he knew that was her watch. He knew who had painted her portrait. He knew why and how.

Don’t look at your shoes. Don’t look at your shoes, he told himself as he looked away from Solange and down at his feet. The streaks of red and blue were still there and now the leather was scratched from Tristan’s last-ditch efforts to scrape the paint off.

"Tristan,” said Solange softly. “Did you paint this?"

“I couldn’t help it!” he blurted out, throwing his hands up in defeat, surprising himself. He looked up and met Solange’s open-mouthed stare. “Your face got stuck in my head and… And… Well…”

He sighed and shook his head. So much for staying calm. So much for not ruining everything.

“I didn’t think you’d actually see it."

[blueeyeddevil]

Solange de Grace

For a long moment all she could do was stare at the paint that was splattered on his scuffed up shoes. She had made the connection that he must have done similar murals, but it hadn't quite occurred to her that he might actually be the one to have painted this mural. Again, hindsight was 20/20 and she felt completely stupid for not having seen it before. She spent more time around Tristan than just about anyone. But she couldn't help but remember his earlier words... that whoever had painted it had feelings for the subject. She wasn't sure now if he was telling the truth or was just trying to throw her off.

“I couldn’t help it!” he finally admitted as his blue eyes met hers. “Your face got stuck in my head and… And… Well…” He let out a sigh and shook his head. He looked so defeated and her throat tightened at she looked at him. “I didn’t think you’d actually see it."

Somehow a small part of her had expected him to keep denying it was his work. She certainly hadn't expected him to say her face had been stuck in his head. But it was out there now. The odd swooping feeling in her stomach at this realization caught her off guard. It wasn't an unpleasant feeling at all. In fact she found she rather liked it. She rather liked the idea that he might see her as the beautiful woman that he had painted in the mural. Honestly, she wasn't sure what it meant that she liked it.

But right now he just looked so deflated and worried and for once she just wanted to put him at ease instead of get a rise from him. Slowly she approached, placing a hand on his arm, rubbing it lightly. "I'm surprised. I mean, I sort of guessed you did tagging but you never told me you did actual art," she teased gently, smiling at him. She looked at the mural once more before looking back up at his face, still smiling. "I think it's beautiful," she told him, hand moving down his arm to grasp his hand, squeezing it. "I really love it."

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

Hopelessness sunk Tristan’s stomach. Now that Solange had seen the mural, there was no way for Tristan to pretend things were normal between them. He’d taken things too far and now Solange was staring at him – she probably thought he was crazy. She’d cancel lunch, turn in her two weeks’ notice and—and—

Solange placed her hand on Tristan’s arm. His stomach, which had felt so heavy mere moments ago, floated back up to where it belonged.

"I'm surprised,” Solange said. But she didn’t sound exactly disappointed. Which was a good thing… Maybe…? “I mean, I sort of guessed you did tagging but you never told me you did actual art."

Tristan frowned. Oh for the love of God… He’d just bared his soul to her basically and she was still making fun of him. He should have known better than to fall for Solange in the first place. In fact, he had known better, but some part of him – the part responsible for the mural – hadn’t listened to common sense.

But she was smiling at him and when that happened, common sense was a moot point.

Solange looked back at the mural. Tristan followed her gaze. By this time next week, volunteers would paint over it; no one else would know the mural was ever here. As desperately as Tristan wished he didn’t have to be here to fess up to painting her after hours, he at least had an answer now. About how Solange felt about the mural, if not about him. She looked back at him and their eyes met.

"I think it's beautiful," she told him, hand moving down his arm to grasp his hand, squeezing it. "I really love it."

Tristan squeezed Solange’s hand back. He shut his eyes; something behind his lids told him if he was looking for the perfect moment to say something, to do something, that this was it. Something else screamed at him not to push his luck. He smiled at her, too torn to act.

She really was beautiful, especially standing inches away from him, holding his hand and smiling like that. Tristan hadn’t wanted to kiss Solange even half as much as he wanted to right now. But he just couldn’t go around kissing his secretary. Just like he couldn’t go around painting her or mooning after her or…

“Thank you,” he murmured against her cheek, hugging her. “So much.”

And then Tristan pressed a shy kiss to Solange’s cheek. It was a quick flutter, gone as soon as it had come for fear of being discovered as less than wholesome. Something besides gratitude motivated that kiss, but there was no good reason for Solange to know that. She didn’t need to know about the nights he went home and thought about calling her, even though he’d seen her mere hours before. She didn’t need to know about the mornings he got to the funeral home early to start coffee brewing so she wouldn’t have to. She certainly didn’t need to know that he really thought she was that beautiful; even more beautiful. He pulled away before he could let any of that slip.

He looked at her and a wavering smile came to his lips. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go get lunch.”

[blueeyeddevil]

Solange de Grace

She watched Tristan after he had all but poured out his heart. It had to have been difficult for him to have admitted that he was the one who had painted it. And somehow she couldn't bring herself to make fun of him the way she normally would have. Didn't want to really. There was a little light teasing to lift the mood a bit but that was it. The painting truly was beautiful and she was still reeling from the from the way it made her feel. Trying to put him at ease, she told what she thought of the painting, giving his hand a squeeze.

For a moment he squeezed back, shutting his eyes. A moment later he opened them again and smiled at her before pulling her into a hug. She smiled softly and wrapped her arms around him. His warmth helped to stave off some of the chill in the air and it felt nice. “Thank you,” he whispered, breath against her cheek. “So much.”

Then she felt his lip brush against her cheek. It was a brief, innocent thing but the swooping feeling suddenly returned to her stomach. And now a light blush came to her cheeks as she chewed on her bottom lip just a bit. He pulled back and the both of them parted. She stopped the lip biting and willed her cheeks to go back to their usual paleness. He smiled at her as he spoke again. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go get lunch.”

She nodded, following him back to the main road they had been walking down before they came across the mural. She took one last glance back at it, trying to remember it because she knew it would be gone soon. As she did she had the oddest thought....

Caleb had never done anything like this for her.

OOC: END SCENE