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A/N: Erik Satie once bought 12 grey velvet suits at the same time. He would wear one suit until it wore out. When he died in 1925, he still had six suits left. He also owned 100 umbrellas. Weird, yes, but not as weird as me.
Chapter Two:
Satie carefully folded 11 of his grey, velvet suits (he was wearing the twelfth!), and put them into a large carpetbag. He continued his packing by gathering up the 87 umbrellas he owned and throwing them into a trunk. Satie walked over to his piano, and grabbed all of the pieces he was working on. He threw it all into the trunk on top of the umbrellas. He picked the heavy trunk, carried it over to the door, and set it down easily. All of a sudden, the door swung open, nearly hitting him in the head.
"Erik? Are you here? Oh, you're behind the door. Going somewhere?" a spunky redheaded young girl burst into his room.
Satie looked up into the face of Dominique Colet, one of his best friends, and fellow composers. They often worked together.
"Yes, I am. I told you before. I am leaving Paris for Arceuil. The train leaves at 8:30; I only have half an hour. I'm in kind of a rush, Mademoiselle Dominique, so if you could make it quick." he replied in a hurried manner.
"Oh," she said quietly. "I didn't realise you were leaving so soon, Erik."
"I decided to leave early."
"But why leave Montmarte at all? It's not so bad, really," Dominique replied. Satie began to laugh, but quickly stopped himself.
"I apologise for laughing, Mademoiselle Dominique, but it is bad. It's really bad. It is dirty, drunken, and raging with consumption and syphilis. No, I will not stay another minute in this place. I am leaving Paris, and you should too, if you know what's good for you," Satie replied bitterly.
Dominique frowned and shook her head. Instead of leaving, she walked over to his carpetbag, which was still lying on his bed. She looked at the suits piled inside and began pulling them out.
"What are you doing, Mademoiselle Dominique?" Satie asked exasperatedly.
Dominique smiled sadly.
"You need a wife," she remarked.
"You know that didn't work out between Suzanne and I, Dominique." he replied, suddenly very reserved.
"I didn't mean Suzanne.I don't think Suzanne even knew how to fold clothes," she remarked, "you certainly don't! Look at these suits! You call this folding? You will get to Arceuil looking like a beggar! First impressions are lasting impressions, Erik!"
"Stop folding my clothes, and stop calling me Erik, Mademoiselle Dominique. I'd rather you call me Satie," he replied sullenly.
"Stop calling me Mademoiselle Dominique. I'd rather you just call me Dominique," she teased. And she continued re-folding the suits.
He was quiet for a moment, as he watched Dominique fold his suits. "You don't have to do that, you know," he said after the awkward pause.
Dominique laughed. "Of course I do! I will not allow the great composer, Erik Satie, arriving in Arceuil, looking like he sleeps in his clothes!"
"I do not sleep in my clothes!"
"You don't?"
"I don't! Give that back!" Satie grabbed Dominique's arm. They stared at his hand resting on Dominique's arm. He looked up quickly and met her gaze. He stared into her liquid-green eyes.
"I-I'm sorry, Mademoi-I mean, Dominique," he began to remove his hand from her arm, but she put her hand on top of his, looking his fingers with hers.
"Don't leave me. Do not leave tonight," she said, holding his hand against her face. "Please." She kissed Satie's hand. Satie watched her.
"I won't leave tonight. I love you too much," he replied quietly. He grabbed Dominique's wrists and pulled her closer to him and kissed her passionately. She closed her eyes and kissed him back, praying the morning would never come.
A/N: Erik Satie once bought 12 grey velvet suits at the same time. He would wear one suit until it wore out. When he died in 1925, he still had six suits left. He also owned 100 umbrellas. Weird, yes, but not as weird as me.
Chapter Two:
Satie carefully folded 11 of his grey, velvet suits (he was wearing the twelfth!), and put them into a large carpetbag. He continued his packing by gathering up the 87 umbrellas he owned and throwing them into a trunk. Satie walked over to his piano, and grabbed all of the pieces he was working on. He threw it all into the trunk on top of the umbrellas. He picked the heavy trunk, carried it over to the door, and set it down easily. All of a sudden, the door swung open, nearly hitting him in the head.
"Erik? Are you here? Oh, you're behind the door. Going somewhere?" a spunky redheaded young girl burst into his room.
Satie looked up into the face of Dominique Colet, one of his best friends, and fellow composers. They often worked together.
"Yes, I am. I told you before. I am leaving Paris for Arceuil. The train leaves at 8:30; I only have half an hour. I'm in kind of a rush, Mademoiselle Dominique, so if you could make it quick." he replied in a hurried manner.
"Oh," she said quietly. "I didn't realise you were leaving so soon, Erik."
"I decided to leave early."
"But why leave Montmarte at all? It's not so bad, really," Dominique replied. Satie began to laugh, but quickly stopped himself.
"I apologise for laughing, Mademoiselle Dominique, but it is bad. It's really bad. It is dirty, drunken, and raging with consumption and syphilis. No, I will not stay another minute in this place. I am leaving Paris, and you should too, if you know what's good for you," Satie replied bitterly.
Dominique frowned and shook her head. Instead of leaving, she walked over to his carpetbag, which was still lying on his bed. She looked at the suits piled inside and began pulling them out.
"What are you doing, Mademoiselle Dominique?" Satie asked exasperatedly.
Dominique smiled sadly.
"You need a wife," she remarked.
"You know that didn't work out between Suzanne and I, Dominique." he replied, suddenly very reserved.
"I didn't mean Suzanne.I don't think Suzanne even knew how to fold clothes," she remarked, "you certainly don't! Look at these suits! You call this folding? You will get to Arceuil looking like a beggar! First impressions are lasting impressions, Erik!"
"Stop folding my clothes, and stop calling me Erik, Mademoiselle Dominique. I'd rather you call me Satie," he replied sullenly.
"Stop calling me Mademoiselle Dominique. I'd rather you just call me Dominique," she teased. And she continued re-folding the suits.
He was quiet for a moment, as he watched Dominique fold his suits. "You don't have to do that, you know," he said after the awkward pause.
Dominique laughed. "Of course I do! I will not allow the great composer, Erik Satie, arriving in Arceuil, looking like he sleeps in his clothes!"
"I do not sleep in my clothes!"
"You don't?"
"I don't! Give that back!" Satie grabbed Dominique's arm. They stared at his hand resting on Dominique's arm. He looked up quickly and met her gaze. He stared into her liquid-green eyes.
"I-I'm sorry, Mademoi-I mean, Dominique," he began to remove his hand from her arm, but she put her hand on top of his, looking his fingers with hers.
"Don't leave me. Do not leave tonight," she said, holding his hand against her face. "Please." She kissed Satie's hand. Satie watched her.
"I won't leave tonight. I love you too much," he replied quietly. He grabbed Dominique's wrists and pulled her closer to him and kissed her passionately. She closed her eyes and kissed him back, praying the morning would never come.