It's Still Life

At an Intersection Named After an English King and a Saint
Six Sentence Story: Part 6 How To Break Eggs

From Brigid’s diary: 17 April – Pierre’s standing at the end of the worktop, watching me, stone silent … butter foaming in a pan over a barely visible flame; 3 eggs lightly beaten; stir until curds form; smack the pan’s handle hard with the palm of my hand to loosen the egg mixture; the omelette releases; tip the pan, curl the edge and let the egg roll tight as a cigar and straight on to the plate – finish with flake salt and tuck the ends under … I look up and say, “Voilà,” and Pierre replies “Tu peux cuisiner,” and since I never argue with a prospective boss, I agree, “Yes, my petit frikadeller*, I cook.”

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I love Arpège – at times it feels as motionless as a psychic root, or a healing physic garden, it’s occasionally melancholy with its slender stem lilies in tall glass vases, or edgy as tables with starched white linen, and there’s a fragrant melding of wax and candlelight – it’s a place where the walls steep in every sound and emotion – of whispers, tears, rage and love, age and youth, a kiss and forbidden bliss, a melodic place of dark and deeper darker shadows, of champagne bottles half full to an optimist’s eye, of whispers in English for poetry and murmurs in French for love, and

Pierre is Front of House while I’m in the heat of it, our affection always within the radius of us, the thrill of ignition, a hell-bound dance of flame and fire … it’s like the chaos of a street fight, the breezeless heat from the stoves’ flame, it’s life’s tonic, and

I wonder why no one studies this sort of dark happiness.

“Do something to help me forget how much I adore you,” says Pierre, and I pull the Gatekeeper’s card from my pocket, and say, “Come with me to the Bistro for a nightcap, Pierre, I don’t want to go by myself because I don’t know anyone there, and I’ll just end up being wallpaper.”

I hang my apron on a hook behind the kitchen door, kick off my white clogs, blow a kiss to the spirits of my kitchen, and slip into something more comfortable – a plain black dress, and my favourite red stilettos, and I pocket the pink peony blossom that’s still as fresh as the day that man and the dog … well, when they collided with me … and Pierre and I set off for a late night drink at the Six Sentence Café & Bistro – with that card safely in my other pocket.

A few blocks and an equal number of steps up from the pavement – we arrive – “Bonjour, mon ami,” says the man at the door to Pierre, they embrace, but when he sees me the man hesitates, gives nothing away, but his dark eyes fill with laughter, and

Pierre notices and quickly introduces me: “Nick, this is my Brigid, and Brigid this is Nick, the Gatekeeper,” and I reach into my pocket and withdraw the peony blossom and hand it to him … “The pleasure is mine,” I say with unintended formality, “…oh, wrong pocket, sorry,” I smile, although the peony was completely with purpose, and I present Nick’s card to him from my other pocket,

and he releases a sound that’s similar to filling ones head with the fumes of a preferred whisky, “Aaah … so it was you playing Scott Buckley,” he says – “Keep the card, Brigid, it’s not needed for one who walks with Scott Buckley’s ghosts … but I shall keep the peony, thanks.”

There was once a young girl with long black hair who fell from the topmost branch of an old yew tree, and she walked away from it without a scratch or bruise, and now she lives at an intersection named after an English king and a saint in a flat above Arpège where she lived many years ago …

… and she cooks.

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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

Written for Denise’s Six Sentence Story to include the word “tonic”. A *frikadeller is a Danish meatball – here’s the recipe on my cookery blog. 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.