KENZIE
Red and White
The headboard of the bed was carved with intricate designs of winery grapevines twisting and turning, winding themselves around the dreams that floated from our minds as we slept. We bought it downtown from a man who barely understood our broken French. We convinced him to lower the price, explaining to him that we were struggling writers, fresh out of college. He told us that with a less expensive price, he would not be able to deliver the bed to our apartment. We dissembled the pieces at the man’s shop and carried them one by one, down the street and up the three flights of stairs that led to our little apartment. I felt her stir as the morning light seeped through the spaces the floor to ceiling velvet curtains did not cover. I kept my eyes closed until i heard the jingle of her keys and the sound of the door shutting. Looking out the window, I watched her cross the street to the market stand, fumbling to put a cigarette between her lips as she went. She looked slow and graceful, her hair pinned up in little buns, showing off the hollow cheekbones of a starving girl. I watched her converse with the man for a moment, before he handed her a paper sack. When she came across the street again, I was under the covers, feigning sleep.
The smell of dark roasted coffee came from the kitchen with the the red refrigerator, and I heard the click of the stove being lit, the splash of water in a pan. I drifted off, waiting for her to bring the enviable breakfast in bed. She nudged me gently. In her arms she held a tray with a blue mug of coffee, a single peach and two hard boiled eggs.
“Good morning, love, I went down to the market stand this morning.”
“Is it early?” I asked her
“Does it matter? Sit up and we’ll share a breakfast.”
She peeled the eggs and cut each one in thin slices, removing the yolk, she placed the white rings in her mouth, then in mine. We shared the peach, letting the juice dribble down our chins.We ate the fruit down to it’s rough center., sucking liquid from the grooves of the pit.
“We’re almost out of money, Kelly.” She said
“We’ll be fine. Soon, I’ll sell one of my stories.”
“And if we get desperate enough, I’ll pedal my paintings on the street corner.”
“Yes. Everything will be fine.” I said.
A month later, our electricity was shut off when we couldn’t pay the bill. I sent Robin down to the electric company with enough to cover the cost. She returned home with a glass vile, half full of cocaine instead. We had promised one another that we would not do any drugs once we got to France. She placed that vile on the coffee table, looking at me with desperation in her eyes, and I knew we were headed for the trouble we had so carefully avoided.
“Oh, how could you?” I asked her.
“I’m sorry. I was just approached on the street by a boy, he asked me if I needed any. I’m weak. I’m sorry. I couldn’t refuse.”
Instead of fighting her, I gave in. The money was gone and the cocaine was there. We stayed up all night ingesting drugs by candlelight. For a few hours, we could relish in the moment. We didn’t need electricity and we wouldn’t be hungry for days. We didn’t laugh and we hardly smiled, just sat side by side, holding one another’s shaking hands, till all the drugs were gone. We could only sit and look at one another then, high to the point of silence. We didn’t pass out until late the next evening. I picked her up and carried her to the bed. We slept snugly that night, curled up against one another in a Parisian spring night that was colder than usual.
The headboard of the bed was carved with intricate designs of winery grapevines twisting and turning, winding themselves around the dreams that floated from our minds as we slept. We bought it downtown from a man who barely understood our broken French. We convinced him to lower the price, explaining to him that we were struggling writers, fresh out of college. He told us that with a less expensive price, he would not be able to deliver the bed to our apartment. We dissembled the pieces at the man’s shop and carried them one by one, down the street and up the three flights of stairs that led to our little apartment. I felt her stir as the morning light seeped through the spaces the floor to ceiling velvet curtains did not cover. I kept my eyes closed until i heard the jingle of her keys and the sound of the door shutting. Looking out the window, I watched her cross the street to the market stand, fumbling to put a cigarette between her lips as she went. She looked slow and graceful, her hair pinned up in little buns, showing off the hollow cheekbones of a starving girl. I watched her converse with the man for a moment, before he handed her a paper sack. When she came across the street again, I was under the covers, feigning sleep.
The smell of dark roasted coffee came from the kitchen with the the red refrigerator, and I heard the click of the stove being lit, the splash of water in a pan. I drifted off, waiting for her to bring the enviable breakfast in bed. She nudged me gently. In her arms she held a tray with a blue mug of coffee, a single peach and two hard boiled eggs.
“Good morning, love, I went down to the market stand this morning.”
“Is it early?” I asked her
“Does it matter? Sit up and we’ll share a breakfast.”
She peeled the eggs and cut each one in thin slices, removing the yolk, she placed the white rings in her mouth, then in mine. We shared the peach, letting the juice dribble down our chins.We ate the fruit down to it’s rough center., sucking liquid from the grooves of the pit.
“We’re almost out of money, Kelly.” She said
“We’ll be fine. Soon, I’ll sell one of my stories.”
“And if we get desperate enough, I’ll pedal my paintings on the street corner.”
“Yes. Everything will be fine.” I said.
A month later, our electricity was shut off when we couldn’t pay the bill. I sent Robin down to the electric company with enough to cover the cost. She returned home with a glass vile, half full of cocaine instead. We had promised one another that we would not do any drugs once we got to France. She placed that vile on the coffee table, looking at me with desperation in her eyes, and I knew we were headed for the trouble we had so carefully avoided.
“Oh, how could you?” I asked her.
“I’m sorry. I was just approached on the street by a boy, he asked me if I needed any. I’m weak. I’m sorry. I couldn’t refuse.”
Instead of fighting her, I gave in. The money was gone and the cocaine was there. We stayed up all night ingesting drugs by candlelight. For a few hours, we could relish in the moment. We didn’t need electricity and we wouldn’t be hungry for days. We didn’t laugh and we hardly smiled, just sat side by side, holding one another’s shaking hands, till all the drugs were gone. We could only sit and look at one another then, high to the point of silence. We didn’t pass out until late the next evening. I picked her up and carried her to the bed. We slept snugly that night, curled up against one another in a Parisian spring night that was colder than usual.