Date: Mon, 23 Jul 2012 19:57:38 -0700 (PDT) From: J M Subject: Everything Goes Awry - Chapter Seven I appreciate everyone's feedback on the story so far--it's been awhile since I've posted an update, so I wanted to post a brief interlude on the way to the next major chapter. This is short--I know! More to come. Your thoughts/opinions on the story are much appreciated. Jm08nyc@yahoo.com CHAPTER SEVEN There are those days; days when you think your whole life just might change. It's not because your horoscope in the paper promises it. It's not because you're holding the winning lottery ticket. It's not because you're about to walk down the aisle or have your first child. It's just a feeling. And today I am feeling it. It was just twelve hours ago, as I read Cooper's letter that I felt like my whole world was splitting apart. I should really say it was shattering into a million pieces, since it split in two months ago when Cooper left. I told Emile to take the morning off and instead I slipped into the metro, into the throngs of people, into the rush of life and headed to work the way a million people across Paris were doing this morning. It was like my senses were on overdrive. A veil had been lifted as I sunk into a seat at the end of the train car and observed the world around me. Sights. Smells. Feelings. And a smile that hadn't left my face since I walked out the door of the house minutes before. It was one of those absentminded smiles, almost. The smile that seems to have no reason for existing. That others catch you with and make them curious about what could possibly make you so happy. For months, first at the house in the south, and now back here in Paris, I had been in mourning. More than mourning. I had been feeling sorry for myself. I had been letting moments of mistake overtake years of happiness. I had let nightmares ruin dreams. Were things perfect, I thought to myself as I climbed out of the subway and into the light. No, of course not, perfect is virtually unattainable. But, things were on the road to being better. *** The day flew by. Meetings. Pitches. We were in overdrive now--I think Stephanie had me lined up for 20 interviews a day for the next six days. Every talented ad man in Paris was angling for a piece of the new business we had just one--it felt good to be on top. And it felt good to feel good. Fuck. It felt good to feel. Thomas checked in before leaving for the day. He was taking his family down to the house in the South for a couple weeks of much-deserved vacation. I think he felt bad leaving me alone during such a busy time, but truth be told, I was so excited about work that I felt okay about it. Plus, he had certainly earned it. Keeping this place going. Keeping me sane... or attempting to. I'd be lost without him. I had called ahead to Suzette, the neighbor who looked after the house for me when I wasn't there, and asked her to fill each room with fresh flowers. The fridge was stocked with champagne. And Suzette's daughter was lined up for a couple nights of babysitting while Thomas was there. It felt good to be able to do something for my old friend. *** I walked out of the office around 10pm that night, into the bright, starry sky of Paris. Whistling. Damn. The whole day was a whirlwind and it was fucking unbelievably amazing. This is why I started my own shop. This is why I loved this business. The thrill of creativity. Emile was waiting for me outside, and after a quick ride home, I once again climbed the stairs of the house on Rue Charlot. Home. It actually felt like I was coming home. I flicked on all the lights as I walked through the house, a remnant of my childhood--when I used to be alone at home I would always turn over every light, the lamps pouring their soft glow out the windows and into the dark world. Tonight I did the same, lighting up Rue Charlot. Lighting up Paris. Reflecting the lights in the night sky. I stripped down to my underwear, leaving my clothes in a pile on the floor in my bedroom and padded into the kitchen. I found that Sophie had made me a plate of sandwiches--ham, butter, salt & pepper on a baguette--and left them in the fridge. My favorite, simple sandwich. I smiled. Things could be worse. What a difference 24 hours makes, I thought to myself, ham sandwich in hand, standing on the balcony, a flood of lights behind me, and the cool breeze hitting my body. Things could definitely be worse. *** It was about 1am when I found myself sitting in the red chair. I had a notebook in hand and was trying to articulate what I would say back to Coop in response to his note. I had managed to read it again and survived the reading with only a few tears. I wasn't sure yet that I was definitely going to reply to Coop, but the thought was starting to settle in. And, it didn't scare me like it once did. *** Every night for the next week, when I'd get home from work, I'd spend some time in the red chair, staring out my bedroom window, and writing thoughts for Coop. Thoughts he might never read, but thoughts that I needed to get out of my head and onto a piece of paper, at the very least. *** It had been a couple of weeks now since that letter had been taped to my door. It had been months since I'd been back in Paris. It had been half a year since Cooper left. The shards of my life were starting to form something resembling a mosaic. Sharp points forming something that one might consider beautiful. A decision had been made. I'm not sure really when I made it. Perhaps it was those nights the last few weeks writing my thoughts in a notebook. Perhaps it was my lengthy conversations with Daniel. Perhaps it was Sophie's measured softness and roughness, bringing me back to the life I used to know. Perhaps it was Thomas and Stephanie. Perhaps it was a combination of everything. I got home from work around 8 and headed for the shower. Letting the hot water flow over my body. Washing away the day. Welcoming me to my new life. I soaped. Massaged. Touched. Rediscovered the body I had all but neglected since Cooper had left. And I smiled. To the beat of the music, blasting from the stereo in the living room, I dressed. Simply. Dark jeans. White shirt. Black jacket. A uniform of sorts. A scent. Slight. But distinct. A calling card for the senses. I picked up the notebook from the red chair and bounded down the steps to Rue Charlot. And into the night. TO BE CONTINUED.