I can still hear that deep voice of his and see his striking profile against the walls of the Chartres Cathedral: tormented French Gothic autumn; agonizing blue eyes; gelid rain lingering on stained glass and trickling on my face like liquid wax at the feet of saints.
“Clara, Miguel needs to stop. He needs to give up. Make him do it or I will.”
Nobody could make Miguel give up. The verb “to give up” was not part of Miguel’s vocabulary.
Miguel was not General Santa Anna who lost the Battle of San Jacinto. At heart Miguel was Cortés. Cortés who conquered an empire. Cortés who enrolled God to help him. Cortés who destroyed and rebuilt.
Jacques had no chance.
Now, when I look back, alone in the mist of those haunting memories, my eyes lids heavy, my body weak, my lips cracked by fever, Angelo was right when he said:
“Wait, Clara, wait, you don’t know Jacques yet.”
In fact, none of us knew Jacques. Not even Angelo.
Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers
@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M)
image: Kees Zwanenburg; Shutterstock; [link]