Love Battles #Glass Lovers

Rage darkened Miguel’s green eyes; his blood was boiling; bible in one hand, sword in the other, breathing heavily, determined not to let his Spanish Armada be sunk the second time.

Ha! And by whom? By a Frenchman?!

Wasn’t Jacques supposed to spend his entire life just alluring the other sex?

Oh, how wrong all of us were to judge Jacques like that!

And how dearly we were to pay for that facile, juvenile judgement of ours.

Steely blue eyes, coat of arms engraved on his shield, Jacques was relentlessly fighting to conquer only one heart; the heart of the woman who Miguel loved.


Both of them reduced me to a war trophy.

In the cozy, beautifully tiled hacienda, darkness broke loose.


From the manuscript Glass Lovers



Miguel was there with me almost every day caressing my perfumed body, drinking every nuance of my spoken words, breathing in my abysmal silences.

I was his Mexico. He was my version of a mirific conquistador: magnificent green eyes, blood pulsating in his temples, bible in one hand, roses in the other.

We both knew that something much stronger than sexual attraction, or even love was growing between us. Yet we could not put a name on it.

Miguel had a proclivity for self-sacrifice.  He was the first to ask for redemption, before he even knew for which sin he was supposed to be forgiven.

Alas, I should have asked too.


Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers   


for you #short prose

Memories of a humid summer, dripping with love, when you finished your book.

In the night red wax is trickling over a torn page that says, “for you- whose love fills my life with joy and makes all things possible.”

My arms ache trying to pull you back from a memory abyss filled with pain.

Can I still make all things possible?

The walls stay silent.




mardi matin (tuesday morning)

Debout face à moi, Miguel, les bras croisés, porte son regard au-delà de moi. Que fixe-t-il ? Voudrait-on lui voler son droit au bonheur ? Je lis la lettre tandis que Miguel ne détache pas son regard du rideau fleuri, derrière moi.
 « Dans la rumeur de la rue parisienne, j’entends ta voix comme si tu étais près de moi. Tremper les doigts dans l’eau froide de la Seine, c’était frôler tes cheveux. Tu me parles tout bas. Combien de temps a passé ? J’aperçois un bateau éclairé qui descend le fleuve. Je t’ai toujours aimée, car j’ai toujours su que t’aimer était pour moi un besoin. Jamais mon amour n’a altéré la magie de ton être. Tout au début, je t’ai gardée telle que tu étais, contemplée de loin, de crainte de parcourir seul, par delà le temps, le chemin frayé par toi dans mon âme. Plus tard… Je te voyais encore tripoter une marionnette dans ce magasin en Rue de Vaugirard. En ce temps, tes paroles n’arrivaient pas jusqu’à moi. Mais je me sentais attiré vers toi par un fil invisible et, une fois entré dans le jeu, ma raison chavirait : étais-je la marionnette animée par ta main ou bien la main caressant le chaud velours de ta robe ? … Les bateaux remontent et redescendent la Seine…Jacques.»
“If things were always what they seemed, how impoverished would be the imagination of man!” Lawrence Durrell, Balthazar.