I didn't care about a lot of things. My mind was always racing far too fast for me to care about most of the worries in the world. For instance, because I thought far too much about when I would next steal away Christian's book again to read, I did not care for the fact that he was my adoptive father. Because I thought about the picture that hung above my bed of Paris, I did not care that he was knocking on my door again, shouting at me.

"Look, I just want you to come and eat," he said through the door, his tone irate. I smiled to myself. It wasn't that I liked to annoy him, I just did, and I was past the point where I could do anything.

"I'm not hungry."

"You haven't been hungry for days!"

"Then if it pleases you I'll eat something later."

"You'll come down now," he demanded, giving the door a last thump. "We haven't eaten together in weeks and it's high time you started to learn some manners and sit with me."

I laughed, twirling a strand of hair around my finger. I put it to my lips, thinking. My fun had been spent, and I nodded to the thin air before me.

"Fine, give me a few minutes."

A relieved sigh came from the other side of the door, and I laughed again. Christian could be so funny at times. I felt a stab of guilt, knowing I was teasing him for no good reason. Perhaps it was why I agreed to eat with him. It wasn't that I didn't want to, it was just that, as I have already said, my mind always raced far too fast for me, and most of the time I forgot that I was being rude.

I glanced only briefly at the mirror in my room- I wasn't one for caring how I looked- and left the bedroom. It was the only bedroom in the small apartment, which Christian was kind enough to give me when he found me. Not that I expect he had much use for a bedroom. He often preferred the balcony- do not ask me why, he must have enjoyed the view.

We ate quietly, although we shared a knowledgeable glance and smile when we thought it appropriate. It was a humid day, and so Christian had freed himself from his thick tweed jacket and unbuttoned his shirt, allowing me to see the fine muscle of his chest. Do not think that I fancied him as anything but my friend and saviour, for I did not. But as I looked at him, I did wonder why I did not have an adoptive mother. He was such a handsome man, one that often women would flock for.

I knew well enough that he had once been loved. As I have said, I had stolen his book, and despite the fact that Christian was a brilliant writer, I could not be fooled. The foolish writer was him, although he did not once affirm that he spoke of his own troubles in life. Satine was the woman who had loved him, and who he had loved.

The book had been one I enjoyed, and allowed me more than enough information to satisfy my curiosities about Christian. He was not an open man, and damn it, I was not one to ask about such things.

Yet, foolishly, I decided it time to ask why women did not flock about him.

What happened next was strange. Christian had often been in a temper with me, and I could not blame him for such. But now, he stared at me with no anger or ill-temperament, but instead with ghosts in his eyes.

We stared at each other for a moment, unable to speak. I could see that he wished to speak, but as I have said, he could not, whether it was because he was welled with anger, or because there were no words to be said.

At last, breaking the silence, Christian threw his fork to his plate. The sound echoed across the room, and he stood abruptly, walking to the balcony. He did not speak for some time after the sound had died away, and instead clutched the wall about the balcony, staring out across Paris.

"Men aren't what you believe they are," he said finally, but quietly. "Not all of them. We do not all enjoy women at our feet. We do not all go to the Moulin Rouge, pretending the can-can dancers about us love us."

"I didn't mean that," I told him.

"It's true enough, though. We don't all need to be loved."

"I love you," I said boldly. Christian laughed, amused.

"And I love you. But you love me as your father, don't you?"

"My friend."

"Your friend. But I still love you as my daughter. That's plenty enough affection, I should think."

I blinked twice, slight dazed at the conversation. Only a small while ago, I had been entertained enough by his misfortune. Now, however, it seemed that he was intent on destroying that satisfaction. I lay my fork down quietly, and without another word, returned to my room.

More often than not I would always end up retiring to my room in this fashion. Yet, this was often due to the fact that we had had an argument of some sort. I had never before seen his eyes like that. Sitting lazily on the edge of my bed, I thought.

The sun had begun to set, painting the room a deep red. I did not have a window, only wooden doors that opened up to the balcony, which were always kept open. If I wanted to, I could have walked to the balcony and seen Christian again, to try and calm him in his hypnotic and miserable state. But, I will admit, I was a selfish thing who wished only to lie atop the sheets of my bed, bathing in the humidity.

No sound came from Christian who now sat on the outside wall. He often did so, looking out at Paris as he had before. It was something he often did. I do not know what he stared at, only that he looked. One day, perhaps, I would ask. I thought it unwise to do so at the moment, though. He was still distraught.

Sighing, I finally stood, but only to find the fan I kept somewhere under the clothes in my drawer. The evenings of late had not been so warm, and I had found little need for the fan. As I opened it up, I smiled musingly. Christian had kept it for a long time, but only noticed a year after taking me in that I did not have one of my own, and so gave it to me.

I listened carefully to the sound of the air rushing as I fanned myself, but I don't clearly know why. It just seemed a strange sound, and one you didn't often hear. I had long abandoned the idea of decent clothing, and lay simply in a thin dress which had been unbuttoned to an indecorous level. Not that I cared, of course. I had never thought of Christian in a way that would make me feel embarrassed or attracted at the fact I dressed in such a way.

The night drew to us slowly, and the room went from red to grey, dyed by the colour of the moon. It was fortunate we lived in a building where, for the better part of the day, the sun shone towards us at the right angle and the moon rose to us directly. There was a beauty to it that mesmerised me slightly, and distracted me quite easily. Christian grew used to it quickly, finding the view beautiful as well, but with less vehement as I.

A soft breeze flew through the open doors, catching me off guard. I lay my fan down on the bed beside me with a sigh, thinking. I could not hear Christian at all, which was strange. I would have thought I would at least hear him cry.

God knows I never would have been able to hold onto tears for so long.