Painting by Kate Hiley

The time was 11:43 pm and I had just woken in my apartment in a pool of sweat. I’d like to say there was a spinning fan on the ceiling, but the place was Paris and we don’t have those here.

I could hear shouting from upstairs. As I lifted myself up out of bed, I had to sit down again – my head was spinning and I couldn’t say why.

Did I have anything to drink the night before? After a head scratch and a hard thought, I couldn’t remember. I checked my pant pocket folded over the chair, only to find matches marked “Le Motel”. On the inside fold, a handwritten phone number in blue ballpoint. A name, Maurice.

“Who the hell is Maurice?” I mumbled to myself.

More shouting.

This time I’d hear the sound of dishes slamming against the floor. Slipping a cigarette between my teeth, I got dressed as fast I could. But before I could pop the collar on my trench, a door slammed, and hard-heeled footsteps moved swiftly down the stairs.

I ran down the hall, and looked over the banister. All I could make out was the top of a hat and a black suit – maybe a hint of a red shoe, I wasn’t too sure.

Up top I could hear a woman sobbing. “Everything alright up there?” I shouted.

No reply.

I went ahead and walked up a flight. The hall was dark, but a crack of light shone from the end of the left wing.I chose to approach it and knocked. While waiting for an answer, I pressed my hand against the door and felt scratch marks up against the wood.

Cigarette still pursed between my lips, I had a minute to spark up a light. But as the match caught fire, the door opened, and on fell upon me the shadow of a woman. “What do you want?” she slurred under her breath.

She was a tall, lanky chick, of no particular shape. Jet black hair, and bags under the eyes. She introduced herself as Simone. I remembered having seen her in the building before, but never thought to look twice. She had crazy written all over.

When I asked what the F was going on, the woman apologized but gave no explanation. Over her shoulder, the place was a pig sty.

Clothes, broken dishes, even a chunk of carpet had been ripped right off the floorboards. The window was wide open, and half her belongings were in the process of being thrown out.

I decided to leave Simone to her hysterical fit, and made my way down the staircase, out, into the city night.

(To be continued…)

Le Motel Bar
8 Passage Josset, 75011 Paris

Burburry’s Art of the Trench
http://artofthetrench.com/

Philippe Zorzetto’s Chaussures Mixtes
106 rue Vieille du Temple, 75003 Paris