Disclaimer – Moulin Rouge is not mine. I am just a penniless writer playing around with things...
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It was a typical winter day. The streets were icy. People trudged through the snow covered paths. The sun shone bleakly through the gray clouds rolling with the cold wind. It was a typical winter day...for everyone else.
There was a café on the street corner. It was cozy on a day like today. He was sitting reading a newspaper by the window. His coffee sat on the table, getting cold. He had only taken a few sips. He wasn't really reading the newspaper either, just skimming through. He lost his interest in headlines a long time ago. A familiar shadow walked past the window and opened the door.
He walked in the café as he did every morning. There he would get his usual table in the corner, take out his pen and paper, and attempt to write. He wrote a few poems here and there but nothing as powerful as in the past. He hung his coat on a hook by the door and then he saw him.
Harold Zidler couldn't meet Christian's eyes. He pretended to read a story about a murder case going on for a few weeks now. Christian stared at Harold. It had been fifteen years since they last saw each other. The day she was buried. Christian sat down at the table but didn't take out his pen. He could only stare at the man across the room. He wasn't sure whether to be angry or sad. He was no longer the vibrant man he once was. His flaming red hair was now graying. His eyes were tired looking and his face had a few more wrinkles than before.
Christian himself had aged quite a bit. His hair was still black as night, his face a little older. He was no longer the naïve young man that once dreamed of a place called Monmarte. He left soon after the story was published. He wondered if Zidler had read it. Not that it mattered. The man only cared about one thing and even that now was dead.
After about five minutes of uncomfortable awkwardness, the two men finally looked at each other. Time stopped as they acknowledged each other. There was no expression on either of their faces. If they knew each other, an outsider would not know. They seemed two strangers happening to share a glance.
Zidler gave a little nod and got up. He left some money on the table and put his coat on. He started to walk towards Christian's table. They still just looked at each other, Zidler almost asking if he could approach the table. Christian also gave a little nod.
"The book was good," Harold said. So he had read it after all.
"The real version was better," Christian replied. He didn't say it nastily or sarcastically, just simply.
Harold said nothing. He offered his hand out. Christian sat for a few seconds, pondering but then shook Harold's hand. Then Harold walked out of the café and into the snow. Christian sat there for an hour, just staring out of the window. Then suddenly he wanted to write. No he needed to write.
Not for a long time had he felt at peace. He had to let go. And he couldn't believe that it came from one of the people he never wanted to see again. As he walked through the snow with the rest of London that day, he felt the sun shine on him, blocking the wind out. It only shone for a few seconds but he knew that somewhere Satine was smiling down on him.