Title: La Bon Moulin Rouge
Author: Laura Fones
E-Mail: rb46628@aol.com
Distribution: Red Windmill, the Penniless Poet, whoever else, simply ask.
Spoilers: Of course! You can't have a Moulin Rouge fiction without horrible, horrible, and shameless spoilers pertaining to the ending of the film.
Rating: PG-13
Content: Christian/China Doll, Toulouse
Feedback: Think of it as a much less costly way of paying your favorite authors with small tokens of ego.pretty please?
Summary: One must always depend on the kindness of strangers, for a man's salvation lies in an unfamiliar hand.
Disclaimer: I do not own and am not affiliated with any part of Baz Luhrmann's production, and I most definitely assure you, I am making no money from this.
Chapter 1
Paris-1900
No one had forgotten him; no one lacked so much heart as to push him from their minds. He now existed as a whispered legend, a modern day player in an all too indulgent Greek tragedy. Sad though that his legend faded further and further back in time as Satine's once notorious name was forgotten with the descending temperature of her body. To be entirely fair, everyone who witnessed the event etched the details and recalled with alarming acuteness both parties in the colorful montage of her demise. It was dramatic, it was beautiful, and it was worthy of the stage.
Now Christian was feared and the hotel that once cased the happiness so inherent to his idealistic views was as a dim, unassailable tower, enveloping his misery and inebriation. This, more probable than any other thing, was what made him strangely alluring to me. Also, in honesty, after the tragic and sudden demolition of what had served as my home for so terribly long, I had been left without option. Desperation, or perhaps madness, had driven me to do what even the great (or rather, tiny) Toulouse had dreaded: arrive upon Christian's doorstep.
Anxiously, I stared at the partition, attempting with my looks to penetrate the extraordinary sadness that encompassed its area. Finally I rallied courage and knocked lightly against the plate of wood. It was almost frightening to hear the non-existence of sound on the other side, while still hearing with painful minutiae every other noise around me.
Cautiously I whispered against the divider, "Monsieur Christian?" There was no appreciable answer. "Are you in there?" I paused, "Please, are you there?" Suddenly a soft groaning, the unmistakable indication of post- weeping, broke the emptiness behind the door and indicated the existence of a living being.
I was almost surprised that my presence was acknowledged, but the unsteady door opened and exposed the keeper of the apartment overlooking my burnt locale. "Yes, what is it?" Words were unfamiliar with the movements of his lips, or perhaps it was just that he was still experiencing in his speech the aftermath of his apparent crying. The remnants of saline droplets still held to the soft contours of his now bearded cheeks.
"Christian?" He seemed foreign to me and my eyes crawled over each line of his face to locate the oddity. "I'm very sorry but." I apologized and quickly came to the point. "I have no one else to ask."
He stopped me mid-sentence and inquired curiously, "Who are you?"
This halted my plea and I looked up at him strangely, "Christian, don't you remember me?" I sighed in realization of the passing of time and nodded, chuckling to myself a bit, "No, I don't suppose you do. I'd imagine you don't recall any of us with the least particularity." I smiled at him and shifted my hips to one side, "It's me. China Doll?" I spoke warily. "From the Moulin Rouge." I looked out the window behind him, remembering the flames. "From what was once the Moulin Rouge."
With a slightly wounded expression he followed my gaze, then returned his glance to me, nodding slightly. "Yes, I remember you."
"With all vagueness I'd suspect." I tilted my head a bit, looking up and seeing the incongruity in his face slowly lessen. "To be honest, I came to ask for lodging."
"Well, if you ask the woman down the stairs, I'm sure there's a vacancy." He began congenially enough, but I lifted a hand to cease his helpful advice.
"But I don't have any money." I said and answered his inevitable question, "I've tapped out all my immediate resources, believe me, so I came to see if. you must understand, I haven't anywhere else to go," I looked down momentarily and explained in unnecessary detail, "And I know I have no right to ask, and I know I should probably leave this horrible place, but beyond it I have no home." I glanced into his heavy lidded eyes with a rueful smile, "Montmartre is my home, I couldn't leave it for the world." My eyebrow quirked at the recognition in his haunted irises, as if my words were somehow familiar to him. "What is it?"
He shook his head, seemingly batting away his previous thoughts, and he attempted a smile, "Nothing," He paused introspectively, "Truly, it's nothing.would you like to come in?" I gestured appreciatively and crossed the threshold. Gingerly I took to a position near the window, half- heartedly enjoying the view with some bit of bitterness.
Again a remorseful smile found a place on my unvarnished lips and I glanced at him, "It was beautiful when lit," I indicated the skeleton foundation just meters below the sill. "I imagine the flames only added to its splendor. I'm sure it would have been exquisite to watch from a distance."
"It was horrible to watch." He corrected me softly, almost indistinctly considering his significant distance from me.
"You've no idea." I shook my head, mentally recounting the seemingly unimportant details of its occurrence, trying to make sense of all of it. "Ahh well, we all have our disappointments and loss." I shrugged a bit, "I suppose we must all progress somehow." I turned to him. "You're doing well?" And if the state of his apartment was to attest, my question should not have been dignified with an answer.
In truth, my question was not answered, he simply pointed to his dust powdered typewriter and the blank pages beside it. I nodded in concession, for I hadn't expected better even though so much time had passed. I knew I shouldn't press, so I simply left it at that. "I know it's rather inconvenient for you, but could I stay the night, I reserve you any right to say no." I tried to be light hearted.
"You can have the bed if you'd like." He offered. It rather surprised me his sociability throughout our encounter, though it was a great relief.
I smiled good-heartedly and asked, "But don't you sleep on it? I'd hate to cause you any difficulty."
"I rarely sleep."
"Oh."
"Can I get your bags?" He politely requested, extending his hand in readiness to aid me.
"I have just the one," I said, quickly retrieving it from the doorway, and on my journey back, placing Christian's hand again at his side, "But thank you." I laid the worn leather case against the naked bed and took a place beside it. "It just has some clothes and a couple of works of mine."
"Works?" He questioned, "Does that mean you're a--"
"Writer in whore's clothing?" I smiled at his rather exposed surprise and nodded more to myself than to him. "I'm afraid it's true." I waited a beat before continuing, drawing from memory my original ambitions, "Everyone comes here for a reason, don't they?" His focus lingered on my bag and I explained to him, "I don't think my writing is as modern as Bohemians profess theirs to be, I dabble more in older techniques." I lifted from my case a small grouping of paper, "I suppose I focus mainly on the ideals of Romanticism."
"May I?" He indicated the papers and I, without vacillation, gave them to him. He looked inquisitively at the pages, then looked toward me. "If you don't mind my asking, where are you from originally?"
"Versailles." I answered, "Not horribly far from Paris."
"Truly?" He inquired, with some incredulity readily perceptible in his tone.
"Yes," I chuckled a bit at his suspicious intonation and shrugged, "I suppose it's a disappointment that I'm not as exotic as everyone considers me." His features softened again and he continued to read.
Again he looked up from the text, "How can you claim not to be Bohemian?" He indicated the reading material that he was apparently enjoying, "This is a testament to what we believe."
My expression again changed, rather unbelieving of his innocence, "The ideals of truth, freedom, beauty, and love are by no means new." I smiled a bit as he observed my statement with fascination, "They just happen to be popular right now."
"I always had my doubt." He smiled sheepishly, and for a very slight moment, I could see no trace of angst on his face. Alas, the moment was too short to enjoy and he again began reading, this time leaning against a wall as varying miens chased across his face.
While he continued on my manuscript, I relaxed into a more settling position and searched through my bag, organizing it without much effort even though it had been packed in haste.
Immeasurably long moments later, Christian cleared his throat as an indication that he had completed his task. "A fan of Victor Hugo's I gather?" He posed the question with the quality of unnatural intuition.
"Yes," I said, rather surprised he'd be so astute as to become familiar with my influences. "How did you guess?"
"Because no one but an enthusiast of his could have written that." He said, almost as if it pained him in some way. "You're very talented."
"Thank you," I smiled softly and at that moment yawned, the proposition of sleep suddenly introduced in the most appealing manner.
"How long has it been since you slept?" He asked, taking almost too immediate notice of my fatigue.
"Far too long.days maybe," I answered, tilting my head wearily, "It used to be I would never want to sleep, but now I find it the most attractive idea in the world."
"Please do." He said and motioned in such a way that suggested the bed was mine to dispose of.
"Thank you." I idled little time before stretching out and retiring into the deep recesses of sleep.
I slept that night without incident of nightmares (which, in truth, for me was a rarity) or even the intrusion of dreamed reality. The only break I must say was not unexpected, as I awoke once to the weeping of a man who had lost his love, and for whom sleep was no escape.
It was just before dawn when I awoke, ironically the time when I usually succumbed to exhaustion. And it was then that I was aroused by, of all things, the lack of a presence in the room. Moaning slightly as I shifted positions to relieve my neck of strain, I noticed the 'presence' had gone out onto the deteriorating wood of the balcony. As my single-mindedness returned to me bit by tiny bit, I made aware of the soft undertow of a song. one I would surely recognize as my consciousness returned. Christian then retreated from the balcony and back inside, crossing the room only to momentarily glare with contempt at his typewriter and continue to the wall where, I discovered, he spends the majority of his time.
"Why are you so afraid of it?" The inquiry was released by lips that had not yet learned the virtues of silent contemplation and I quickly amended the question. "I'm sorry...it doesn't matter."
"It's alright." He endeavored to grant me a pardoning grin, but fell a bit short and simply said, "It's a perfectly natural question."
"You don't need to answer," I replied. "It was stupid of me to ask."
"I wonder," He said, rather rapidly changing the subject, "You're obviously well educated, and yet, you were a can-can dancer.it just seems a bit unorthodox."
"The same query could be put to you Monsieur Christian." I countered good- naturedly.
"The so called Revolution," He answered straightforwardly enough, "I wanted to write, to live my own life."
"And makes you believe that wasn't my very motivation?" I said, in speech more solemn than was entirely de rigueur.
"I see," He accepted my answer and asked no more, sharing the same tolerance for me as I had for him in never delving deeply.
"Yes," I continued, "I wanted to dedicate my life to my writing. be a starving poet, you know? As for the can-can dancing, I think it's only fair to allow blame to rest on youthful folly." He smiled in the slightest way and I took the opportunity to ask, "Why have you been so kind to me, Christian?"
He made his expression the lazy face of ignorance and responded, "What do you mean?"
"Well, your actual knowledge of me spans no further than a day, which reason states, is a rather short time in which to gain your trust," I spoke, turning my hands over as pans of a scale and weighed only the one side. "And given that, you welcome me into your place of residence, act congenially, and try as best you can to help me.all the while, you're still." I should have ceased my unreasonable argument then and there, but I was compelled to finish. "Grieving." I questioned momentarily if the mere mention of grief would upset him. Studying his look with care, and perhaps in due part to the nearly numinous intuition writers are fabled to possess, I came to a realization as his gaze lingered on his typewriter. "You haven't forgotten her at all, have you?"
He shook his head painfully and I could see a soft gleam coating the darkened lines of his eyes. "Christian." It seemed as though the softness of my tone wounded him and he began to quietly cry. I chided myself and moved to hold him by the shoulders to steady him. This tiny act only served to increase his angst and led him to sobbing, at which point he welcomed my proffered arms and dampened them in his misery.
His body swayed and I could no longer hold his weight as well as my own. As a result I moved us onto the floorboards, allowing him to adopt a fetal position while still lying in my arms. Internally, I wished I could draw from him some of the burden that he suffered and displace it. How he could tolerate simply looking at me when I was only a reminder of his loss.
It was then, in his state, that I fell prey to love, and I held him tighter, making our bodies move in isochronisms, both being racked equally by his sobs. It was cruel for him to be left alone, abandoned in his condition without any sort of release or diversion. It was ludicrous for anyone to fear him; he was not a creature to be feared, but a man who was to be consoled.
Gently I spoke to him, "Christian, you must expel this sorrow onto paper," I gently kissed his cheek as I would in soothing a child, "You can't ever expect peace if you don't." He shook his head, whimpering. "Yes," I reinforced in the kindliest of voices, "Do you remember your promise to her Christian?"
"Yes," The straining accent was barely to be heard save for the vibrations of his speech that I felt discharge through his body.
"Do you want to forget her?" He shook his head violently and I calmed him with gentle stroking, "Then remember her on the page." I made him look at me as I intoned with vehemence, "Make everyone remember her Christian. Make her love your masterpiece." I paused and sighed with the slightest hint of a voice, "It's been a year.don't let her fade into the darkness." He nodded, accepting everything I had told him and suddenly it was he who held me tightly against him, making my entire frame shudder from his withheld sobs.
He began again, weeping onto my shoulder as my head lay limply upon his, spent from the energy he had exerted. Rocking me as if I were his dead love, my own tears marked his arms and I drew from him the understanding two authors share when creativity is useless.
Author: Laura Fones
E-Mail: rb46628@aol.com
Distribution: Red Windmill, the Penniless Poet, whoever else, simply ask.
Spoilers: Of course! You can't have a Moulin Rouge fiction without horrible, horrible, and shameless spoilers pertaining to the ending of the film.
Rating: PG-13
Content: Christian/China Doll, Toulouse
Feedback: Think of it as a much less costly way of paying your favorite authors with small tokens of ego.pretty please?
Summary: One must always depend on the kindness of strangers, for a man's salvation lies in an unfamiliar hand.
Disclaimer: I do not own and am not affiliated with any part of Baz Luhrmann's production, and I most definitely assure you, I am making no money from this.
Chapter 1
Paris-1900
No one had forgotten him; no one lacked so much heart as to push him from their minds. He now existed as a whispered legend, a modern day player in an all too indulgent Greek tragedy. Sad though that his legend faded further and further back in time as Satine's once notorious name was forgotten with the descending temperature of her body. To be entirely fair, everyone who witnessed the event etched the details and recalled with alarming acuteness both parties in the colorful montage of her demise. It was dramatic, it was beautiful, and it was worthy of the stage.
Now Christian was feared and the hotel that once cased the happiness so inherent to his idealistic views was as a dim, unassailable tower, enveloping his misery and inebriation. This, more probable than any other thing, was what made him strangely alluring to me. Also, in honesty, after the tragic and sudden demolition of what had served as my home for so terribly long, I had been left without option. Desperation, or perhaps madness, had driven me to do what even the great (or rather, tiny) Toulouse had dreaded: arrive upon Christian's doorstep.
Anxiously, I stared at the partition, attempting with my looks to penetrate the extraordinary sadness that encompassed its area. Finally I rallied courage and knocked lightly against the plate of wood. It was almost frightening to hear the non-existence of sound on the other side, while still hearing with painful minutiae every other noise around me.
Cautiously I whispered against the divider, "Monsieur Christian?" There was no appreciable answer. "Are you in there?" I paused, "Please, are you there?" Suddenly a soft groaning, the unmistakable indication of post- weeping, broke the emptiness behind the door and indicated the existence of a living being.
I was almost surprised that my presence was acknowledged, but the unsteady door opened and exposed the keeper of the apartment overlooking my burnt locale. "Yes, what is it?" Words were unfamiliar with the movements of his lips, or perhaps it was just that he was still experiencing in his speech the aftermath of his apparent crying. The remnants of saline droplets still held to the soft contours of his now bearded cheeks.
"Christian?" He seemed foreign to me and my eyes crawled over each line of his face to locate the oddity. "I'm very sorry but." I apologized and quickly came to the point. "I have no one else to ask."
He stopped me mid-sentence and inquired curiously, "Who are you?"
This halted my plea and I looked up at him strangely, "Christian, don't you remember me?" I sighed in realization of the passing of time and nodded, chuckling to myself a bit, "No, I don't suppose you do. I'd imagine you don't recall any of us with the least particularity." I smiled at him and shifted my hips to one side, "It's me. China Doll?" I spoke warily. "From the Moulin Rouge." I looked out the window behind him, remembering the flames. "From what was once the Moulin Rouge."
With a slightly wounded expression he followed my gaze, then returned his glance to me, nodding slightly. "Yes, I remember you."
"With all vagueness I'd suspect." I tilted my head a bit, looking up and seeing the incongruity in his face slowly lessen. "To be honest, I came to ask for lodging."
"Well, if you ask the woman down the stairs, I'm sure there's a vacancy." He began congenially enough, but I lifted a hand to cease his helpful advice.
"But I don't have any money." I said and answered his inevitable question, "I've tapped out all my immediate resources, believe me, so I came to see if. you must understand, I haven't anywhere else to go," I looked down momentarily and explained in unnecessary detail, "And I know I have no right to ask, and I know I should probably leave this horrible place, but beyond it I have no home." I glanced into his heavy lidded eyes with a rueful smile, "Montmartre is my home, I couldn't leave it for the world." My eyebrow quirked at the recognition in his haunted irises, as if my words were somehow familiar to him. "What is it?"
He shook his head, seemingly batting away his previous thoughts, and he attempted a smile, "Nothing," He paused introspectively, "Truly, it's nothing.would you like to come in?" I gestured appreciatively and crossed the threshold. Gingerly I took to a position near the window, half- heartedly enjoying the view with some bit of bitterness.
Again a remorseful smile found a place on my unvarnished lips and I glanced at him, "It was beautiful when lit," I indicated the skeleton foundation just meters below the sill. "I imagine the flames only added to its splendor. I'm sure it would have been exquisite to watch from a distance."
"It was horrible to watch." He corrected me softly, almost indistinctly considering his significant distance from me.
"You've no idea." I shook my head, mentally recounting the seemingly unimportant details of its occurrence, trying to make sense of all of it. "Ahh well, we all have our disappointments and loss." I shrugged a bit, "I suppose we must all progress somehow." I turned to him. "You're doing well?" And if the state of his apartment was to attest, my question should not have been dignified with an answer.
In truth, my question was not answered, he simply pointed to his dust powdered typewriter and the blank pages beside it. I nodded in concession, for I hadn't expected better even though so much time had passed. I knew I shouldn't press, so I simply left it at that. "I know it's rather inconvenient for you, but could I stay the night, I reserve you any right to say no." I tried to be light hearted.
"You can have the bed if you'd like." He offered. It rather surprised me his sociability throughout our encounter, though it was a great relief.
I smiled good-heartedly and asked, "But don't you sleep on it? I'd hate to cause you any difficulty."
"I rarely sleep."
"Oh."
"Can I get your bags?" He politely requested, extending his hand in readiness to aid me.
"I have just the one," I said, quickly retrieving it from the doorway, and on my journey back, placing Christian's hand again at his side, "But thank you." I laid the worn leather case against the naked bed and took a place beside it. "It just has some clothes and a couple of works of mine."
"Works?" He questioned, "Does that mean you're a--"
"Writer in whore's clothing?" I smiled at his rather exposed surprise and nodded more to myself than to him. "I'm afraid it's true." I waited a beat before continuing, drawing from memory my original ambitions, "Everyone comes here for a reason, don't they?" His focus lingered on my bag and I explained to him, "I don't think my writing is as modern as Bohemians profess theirs to be, I dabble more in older techniques." I lifted from my case a small grouping of paper, "I suppose I focus mainly on the ideals of Romanticism."
"May I?" He indicated the papers and I, without vacillation, gave them to him. He looked inquisitively at the pages, then looked toward me. "If you don't mind my asking, where are you from originally?"
"Versailles." I answered, "Not horribly far from Paris."
"Truly?" He inquired, with some incredulity readily perceptible in his tone.
"Yes," I chuckled a bit at his suspicious intonation and shrugged, "I suppose it's a disappointment that I'm not as exotic as everyone considers me." His features softened again and he continued to read.
Again he looked up from the text, "How can you claim not to be Bohemian?" He indicated the reading material that he was apparently enjoying, "This is a testament to what we believe."
My expression again changed, rather unbelieving of his innocence, "The ideals of truth, freedom, beauty, and love are by no means new." I smiled a bit as he observed my statement with fascination, "They just happen to be popular right now."
"I always had my doubt." He smiled sheepishly, and for a very slight moment, I could see no trace of angst on his face. Alas, the moment was too short to enjoy and he again began reading, this time leaning against a wall as varying miens chased across his face.
While he continued on my manuscript, I relaxed into a more settling position and searched through my bag, organizing it without much effort even though it had been packed in haste.
Immeasurably long moments later, Christian cleared his throat as an indication that he had completed his task. "A fan of Victor Hugo's I gather?" He posed the question with the quality of unnatural intuition.
"Yes," I said, rather surprised he'd be so astute as to become familiar with my influences. "How did you guess?"
"Because no one but an enthusiast of his could have written that." He said, almost as if it pained him in some way. "You're very talented."
"Thank you," I smiled softly and at that moment yawned, the proposition of sleep suddenly introduced in the most appealing manner.
"How long has it been since you slept?" He asked, taking almost too immediate notice of my fatigue.
"Far too long.days maybe," I answered, tilting my head wearily, "It used to be I would never want to sleep, but now I find it the most attractive idea in the world."
"Please do." He said and motioned in such a way that suggested the bed was mine to dispose of.
"Thank you." I idled little time before stretching out and retiring into the deep recesses of sleep.
I slept that night without incident of nightmares (which, in truth, for me was a rarity) or even the intrusion of dreamed reality. The only break I must say was not unexpected, as I awoke once to the weeping of a man who had lost his love, and for whom sleep was no escape.
It was just before dawn when I awoke, ironically the time when I usually succumbed to exhaustion. And it was then that I was aroused by, of all things, the lack of a presence in the room. Moaning slightly as I shifted positions to relieve my neck of strain, I noticed the 'presence' had gone out onto the deteriorating wood of the balcony. As my single-mindedness returned to me bit by tiny bit, I made aware of the soft undertow of a song. one I would surely recognize as my consciousness returned. Christian then retreated from the balcony and back inside, crossing the room only to momentarily glare with contempt at his typewriter and continue to the wall where, I discovered, he spends the majority of his time.
"Why are you so afraid of it?" The inquiry was released by lips that had not yet learned the virtues of silent contemplation and I quickly amended the question. "I'm sorry...it doesn't matter."
"It's alright." He endeavored to grant me a pardoning grin, but fell a bit short and simply said, "It's a perfectly natural question."
"You don't need to answer," I replied. "It was stupid of me to ask."
"I wonder," He said, rather rapidly changing the subject, "You're obviously well educated, and yet, you were a can-can dancer.it just seems a bit unorthodox."
"The same query could be put to you Monsieur Christian." I countered good- naturedly.
"The so called Revolution," He answered straightforwardly enough, "I wanted to write, to live my own life."
"And makes you believe that wasn't my very motivation?" I said, in speech more solemn than was entirely de rigueur.
"I see," He accepted my answer and asked no more, sharing the same tolerance for me as I had for him in never delving deeply.
"Yes," I continued, "I wanted to dedicate my life to my writing. be a starving poet, you know? As for the can-can dancing, I think it's only fair to allow blame to rest on youthful folly." He smiled in the slightest way and I took the opportunity to ask, "Why have you been so kind to me, Christian?"
He made his expression the lazy face of ignorance and responded, "What do you mean?"
"Well, your actual knowledge of me spans no further than a day, which reason states, is a rather short time in which to gain your trust," I spoke, turning my hands over as pans of a scale and weighed only the one side. "And given that, you welcome me into your place of residence, act congenially, and try as best you can to help me.all the while, you're still." I should have ceased my unreasonable argument then and there, but I was compelled to finish. "Grieving." I questioned momentarily if the mere mention of grief would upset him. Studying his look with care, and perhaps in due part to the nearly numinous intuition writers are fabled to possess, I came to a realization as his gaze lingered on his typewriter. "You haven't forgotten her at all, have you?"
He shook his head painfully and I could see a soft gleam coating the darkened lines of his eyes. "Christian." It seemed as though the softness of my tone wounded him and he began to quietly cry. I chided myself and moved to hold him by the shoulders to steady him. This tiny act only served to increase his angst and led him to sobbing, at which point he welcomed my proffered arms and dampened them in his misery.
His body swayed and I could no longer hold his weight as well as my own. As a result I moved us onto the floorboards, allowing him to adopt a fetal position while still lying in my arms. Internally, I wished I could draw from him some of the burden that he suffered and displace it. How he could tolerate simply looking at me when I was only a reminder of his loss.
It was then, in his state, that I fell prey to love, and I held him tighter, making our bodies move in isochronisms, both being racked equally by his sobs. It was cruel for him to be left alone, abandoned in his condition without any sort of release or diversion. It was ludicrous for anyone to fear him; he was not a creature to be feared, but a man who was to be consoled.
Gently I spoke to him, "Christian, you must expel this sorrow onto paper," I gently kissed his cheek as I would in soothing a child, "You can't ever expect peace if you don't." He shook his head, whimpering. "Yes," I reinforced in the kindliest of voices, "Do you remember your promise to her Christian?"
"Yes," The straining accent was barely to be heard save for the vibrations of his speech that I felt discharge through his body.
"Do you want to forget her?" He shook his head violently and I calmed him with gentle stroking, "Then remember her on the page." I made him look at me as I intoned with vehemence, "Make everyone remember her Christian. Make her love your masterpiece." I paused and sighed with the slightest hint of a voice, "It's been a year.don't let her fade into the darkness." He nodded, accepting everything I had told him and suddenly it was he who held me tightly against him, making my entire frame shudder from his withheld sobs.
He began again, weeping onto my shoulder as my head lay limply upon his, spent from the energy he had exerted. Rocking me as if I were his dead love, my own tears marked his arms and I drew from him the understanding two authors share when creativity is useless.