Christian stared along rows upon rows of typewriters. Dust had collected on
many. The sound of footsteps behind the counter greeted him. "Bonjour,
monsieur, peux-je vous aider?" Christian turned around glumly to face the
expectant salesman.
"Oui, je souhaite acheter un machine à écrire...pour moins que cinquante francs."
"Bien, nous avons..."
Christian exited the shop fifteen minutes later, carrying a typewriter under an arm. He pulled his trench coat in, shivering from the cold. After a minute of walking, he set the typewriter down, undid his scarf, and rewrapped it, covering his beard as he did so.
Finally, he reached his apartment. Climbing up four flights of stairs, he fumbled through his pockets, searching for the brass key to unlock the door...click. He stepped in and slid the door shut behind him.
The room had papers littered over the floor. Pictures had fallen of the wall, with Christian having no desire to clean the cobwebs shunning out corners. Half-melted candled and stubs covered every inch of the room, and to complete, a bottle of Absinthe stood on a cupboard.
Christian grabbed it, the vivid green calling him towards it, making his eyes glaze with desire. He grabbed the bottle, poured himself a glass, then set the typewriter down on his desk...but he didn't sit down. Instead, he wondered throughout the room in frustration, parking himself in various locations, too tired to care, to tired to think.
For days, he only looked at it, never daring to even touch the gloss of the keyboard. Eating only enough to survive, after weeks having turned to months of waiting, he finally sat down in front of the typewriter, but where to begin? His fingers began tapping...
"The greatest thing, you'll ever learn, is just to love and be loved in return..."
"Oui, je souhaite acheter un machine à écrire...pour moins que cinquante francs."
"Bien, nous avons..."
Christian exited the shop fifteen minutes later, carrying a typewriter under an arm. He pulled his trench coat in, shivering from the cold. After a minute of walking, he set the typewriter down, undid his scarf, and rewrapped it, covering his beard as he did so.
Finally, he reached his apartment. Climbing up four flights of stairs, he fumbled through his pockets, searching for the brass key to unlock the door...click. He stepped in and slid the door shut behind him.
The room had papers littered over the floor. Pictures had fallen of the wall, with Christian having no desire to clean the cobwebs shunning out corners. Half-melted candled and stubs covered every inch of the room, and to complete, a bottle of Absinthe stood on a cupboard.
Christian grabbed it, the vivid green calling him towards it, making his eyes glaze with desire. He grabbed the bottle, poured himself a glass, then set the typewriter down on his desk...but he didn't sit down. Instead, he wondered throughout the room in frustration, parking himself in various locations, too tired to care, to tired to think.
For days, he only looked at it, never daring to even touch the gloss of the keyboard. Eating only enough to survive, after weeks having turned to months of waiting, he finally sat down in front of the typewriter, but where to begin? His fingers began tapping...
"The greatest thing, you'll ever learn, is just to love and be loved in return..."