It's Still Life

Previous instalments of this story: Part 1: The Pull Back   Part 2: The Measure of Her    Part 2: The Gatekeeper’s Response  Part 3: The Colour of Walls   Part 4: Tectonic Shifts  Part 5: Out of the Frying Pan  Part 6: How to Break Eggs Part 7: A Moon River  Part 8: Starlight Shines on the Roof  Part 9: Before When   Part: 9.1 Flower Power

---

At an Intersection Named After an English King and a Saint
Part 5 Out of the Frying Pan

I empathise with rabbits caught in the glare of a car’s headlights – you see, two things can make me go stiff – snakes and death (as in a stiff) … and the latter is increasingly more likely because I’d remember if I saw a snake.

I’m still standing, stiffly in situ, holding my bouquet of peonies, the number now reduced to 8 because one blossom broke from its stem during my encounter with the man, and I’m watching him and the dog walk away, albeit at a slower pace than the dog thinks is dignified for such a bracing lad … and I’m fodder in my own stream of consciousness, and that presents its own problems: I’m talking to myself, possibly out loud, causing a school boy who’s walking toward me to suddenly stop, change direction and cross the street.

I smile at the boy, and I pick up the peony blossom from the pavement, inhale its jasmine-rose perfume, and carefully tuck it into my pocket as I consider if I should call out to the man “Pardon me, but what’s your name…” but that’s not something I’d ever do to a perfect stranger, or I might shout out “Scott Buckley” and see if that gets a response, but the man’s name is certainly not Scott Buckley, so he’s not apt to respond to that either …

and so I watch the man and the dog disappear around the corner, and I console myself with a shrug and sighing c’est la vie.

I need to find something with which to distract and/or occupy myself, and I’m not entirely surprised to realise I’ve been think-walking, and now I’m standing at the frontage window of Arpège – and Pierre looks up and waves me inside, greets me with two bises, right cheek kiss left cheek kiss, and he says, “You’re not French, Brigid, so you must do four,” and I humour him because everyone humours Pierre … and he asks if I want lunch, and I say, “Merci, mais non, mon amour – Thank you, but no, my love … I’ve rather lost my appetite.”

Pierre studies me carefully, and asks “What is it, Brigid?”

“I’m bored stiff, Pierre. I want a job, not front of house, but in the kitchen,” I say, and he laughs, asks if I know how to boil water, and I suck in breath and say, “I’m a Leiths graduate, my little poppet, CTH Level 4 Extended Certificate in Culinary Arts, and Pierre reassesses the woman standing before him and says,

“Make me a proper French omelette, Brigid, and we’ll see if you’re up to it.”

---

Written for Denise’s Six Sentence Story, including the word “present”. Some artwork is created using Midjourney AI, and is identified as such in the ALT text or captioned. Images are copyright and not to used without permission, which I willingly give when asked, and when not for commercial use. Imagery and poems/prose ©Misky 2006-2024.