It is a tranquil morning in Paris, the clock inching toward nine, as the city stirs from its slumber. In a secluded corner, far removed from the frenetic pulse of urban life, a man resides in a snug studio apartment. The apricity of the early sun spills into the room, casting a warm maroon and reddish hue reminiscent of maple leaves ablaze in autumn. This early weekend light dances through the long window of the dining-drawing room, spilling across the floor like the ethereal shadow of a wizard, reaching out to caress the couch.
There, half-reclined, is the man, engrossed in a novella by Katherine Neville, certainly the French version.
The very essence of the room is steeped in Gallic charm—the decor, the atmosphere, and indeed, the man himself—all embodying the spirit of France. Yet, amidst this quintessentially French tableau, an English melody weaves its way through the air, an unexpected yet harmonious intrusion.
Ring out the bells again,
Like we did when spring began,
Wake me up when September ends
[The lyrics of Green Day's "Wake me up when September ends"]
Yet, this perfect morning portrait is abruptly disrupted by the arrival of a figure, barely discernible beneath a cocoon of blankets. With small, unsteady steps that resemble the gliding of a specter, the "thing" approaches the man, who, upon lowering his book, greets the shadow with a smile that could illuminate the darkest of days.
"Do you have any plans for today?" he asks, his voice laced with affection.
A long sigh escapes her lips, followed by a low murmur, "Tu vas me manquer."
His laughter, tender yet tinged with a hint of sorrow, fills the air. "Oui! Moi aussi! Beaucoup, beaucoup."
"Je ne veux pas partir," she murmurs, her voice muffled by the blanket.
"C'est bon! Vous pouvez juste me marier et rester chez moi!" he teases.
"Nnnooon!" she protests, her voice, a playful whine.
"Pourquoi pas!" he counters, still smiling, as he gently kisses her, his fingers brushing through her tousled hair, a tender attempt to tame the remnants of sleep.
"This moment... this very moment is the definition of the love I have always sought. Marriage will ruin our love... marriage is ugly." She answered, suddenly feeling all awake.
He adopts the patient expression of an adult explaining a complex truth to a stubborn child. "Alors, devrais-je marier une autre femme?"
She groans, "Aaa je ne sais pas! En fait NONNNNN."
He laughed heartily once more, "Would you like a coffee, Mademoiselle."
"Don't speak English in front of other ladies, you hear me! That's dangerous for the heart! I have no energy to compete with others; I'm too old for that!" She believes the way he speaks English with his mix that slightly Algerian mostly french accent, it’s dangerously attractive!
"Okay! Mais je pense que it is just you who thinks like this!"
"Ughh, whatever. This Berber descendant will be the death of me! She groand with pseudo disappointed.
"Wallah! No! You cannot die!" His mock sadness, though playful, is endearing, eliciting a laugh from her.
She tilts her head, a satisfied smile gracing her lips. "*
As they linger in their cocoon of love, the song shifts, transforming the atmosphere into something more melancholic.
In between their moment of little love-death-life, the song changed into the November rain...
If we could take the time to lay it on the line
I could rest my head just knowin' that you were mine
All mine
So if you want to love me then darlin' don't refrain"
[Part of the "November Rain" song lyrics by Guns N' Roses]
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