We sat there in the shadows of Sacré-Cœur, our laughter gone, our wills broken, our souls scarred, longing for what once was us. A heavy darkness was staring back at me from a white abstract past, like Malevich’s Black Square hanging on a cracked wall.
Who was to blame for all that happened? We had no answer. We could not judge ourselves anymore. We did that too many times. We got nowhere.
God did not promise us anything before we were born. He did not promise us anything even after we were born.
Miguel and Jacques looked petrified.
I gazed at Miriam. She spoke.
Miriam and that beautiful face of hers, her short black dresses scented with jasmine, her love for Jacques whispering like shadows on the roofs of Paris during purple dawns. Miriam and her paintings violating the silence of her studio from which one could see Notre-Dame. Miriam watching Rodin’s Gates of Hell for hours at the time. I always wondered what she thought about.
Now I think I know.
excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers
@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M)
image: Lana Tikhonova; Shutterstock; [link]