☘︎·༻☘︎༺·☽·༻☘︎༺·☘︎☘︎·༻☘︎༺·☽·༻☘︎༺·☘︎
Days had gone by, and I waited for her to call, yet not once did the phone ring. The hospital became merely a distraction. My assistant, Claire, never asked questions. Her head remained lowered; her eyes focused on the computer screen. Even when the pager beeped and I was called downstairs, she would only raise her eyes and watch me leave.
Once, I was called in to operate on a patient with a fishbone lodged in their throat. My body seemed to move on its own while my mind drifted to another city. It always returned to Monica. Eventually, I decided I had to leave her a message. Invite her out that weekend. Tête-à-tête avec la toile
At the café on Rue de Rivoli, I dialed her number. It rang three times, of course. Not once did she answer. I began to worry about what I had done wrong, and all I could visualize was the Odalisque fading into the background, hidden behind the thick dark curtain. Then, just before midnight, while I was lying in bed, Monica called. The words came through the speaker like the whisper of a siren. She agreed to meet me that weekend. We spent the night thrusting curious questions at one another until the conversation finally ended. That night, I had a good night’s sleep.
That Sunday evening, I waited for Monica at the Marché sur l’Eau. I sat on a bench for thirty minutes, changing my posture each time I checked the time.
Had she suddenly changed her mind? The question lingered as my eyes turned toward every corner, searching for the vixen. Monica appeared almost an hour later, and the heat of the afternoon had nearly melted me into the bench. She waved as she approached. Her baby-pink knitted sweater and high ponytail made her look like a girl studying at a Catholic school.
She sat beside me, and stared at me for a moment, and giggled at how pathetic I looked.
Monica’s palm touched my forehead. “Andre? Are you okay? You look pale.”
I immediately stood up, electrified by her touch.
“Yes.” I nearly stumbled, losing my balance. “You came,” I said with a nervous smile.
“Why wouldn’t I?” she asked, clearly confused. “Are you okay, Andre?”
“Yes, I just thought… never mind,” I said, zipping up my jacket. “Where do you want to go?”
“I don’t know,” she said, still teased, her eyes folding into a soft smile. “Be my tour guide.”
“Sure.” It was the only response I could give. I had been in situations like this before, but Monica had drawn me into something unthinkable.
“Where did Andre go? Are you nervous? Is this your first date?” she prodded, leaning closer. Her gaze locked onto mine.
“I was just worried that you might not call. And… and I didn’t want to annoy you,” I murmured, looking away.
Her brows furrowed as she leaned back against the bench. I did not understand her today. She seemed like a complete stranger. What had happened to the Magdalene I had been following these past weeks?
“So, are you ready to go?” I asked, edging closer to her. Monica did not turn around and kept staring at the river. She had not moved once.
“Come on. Let’s go,” Monica said. There was a sudden shift in her demeanor.
I did not say a word. I followed her through the crowded market, the smell of stagnant canal water mixing with frying crepe batter. The noise of tourists was deafening, overwhelming me. I was flooded by the intensity of the place. But when I narrowed my focus to the person in front of me, the storm inside me calmed. Monica pulled me out of the Bermuda I had fallen into.
“Andre, look!” Monica pulled my sleeve, pointing at a florist stall. Buckets of bright orange and yellow bloom spilled onto the pavement.
Without hesitation, I signaled the vendor. “Je voudrais acheter ces soucis, s’il vous plaît Merci,” I said, handing over the bill.
“Thank you,” she mumbled, clasping her hands behind her back.
We walked to a nearby tree and rested there for a while. Monica sat on the grass and placed the bouquet on her lap. I did not interrupt the moment; I simply watched her beside me.
Her side profile was even more beautiful up close. She had a small aquiline nose and a sharp gaze when she was serious. There was a sudden intrusion of savagery in my thoughts. I knew it was her fault for making me witness the softness of her shoulders. But they were covered today, so I let my imagination drift.
“Have you eaten?” I asked, dusting off my pants. “We could try that nearby bistro, if you like.”
“Yes, just a little,” she replied, her eyes catching hints of green and gold as the light shifted across them. “But sure, we can try the bistro.”
On the way to the bistro, we passed a street procession. Children and women danced to the music, while men carried a statue through the crowd. The loud music of the festivities felt like a hammer against my head, but Monica did not seem to mind. She looked almost excited.
“C’mon, let’s go,” I said, taking her hand.
“Wait, I’d like to watch,” she responded, stopping at the sidewalk.
Glancing at my watch, I said, “I’m sorry, Monica, I’m kind of starving. But if you want to stay, it’s okay.”
“Oh! I’m sorry. I was getting carried away,” she replied almost laughed.
When we reached the bistro, I guided Monica to a table in the far corner and pulled out a chair for her. She placed the marigolds on the side of the table and adjusted her sleeves.
“Andre, why are you anxious around me?” Monica said as she patted my back and smiled. I tried to move back, but she was watching me and leaning closer.
“I’m not,” I said, deflecting and scratching my knee.
“Well, you seem like it,” she said, resting her chin on her hands.
“Okay, I’m sorry. I looked pathetic,” I said, touching my lower lip.
“No, you’re not. You should be confident!” Monica assured me, her voice teasing and her lips curling into a small smile. “Do you even look in the mirror? Gosh, you look astounding. You have high cheekbones, a sharp jaw, piercing grey eyes, and thick upturned eyebrows. It almost looks like the gods gave you all that grace.”
Her words filled my ego with her compliments. Of course, I knew that already. I was aware. So that was how she saw me.
“No, I’m not,” I said with a smirk. “So, you find me attractive?”
“No!” she laughed, avoiding eye contact.
At this point, if we had not been in a public place, I would have touched her and shoved her face against the headrest so she understood where to put her mouth. After that, she would have looked like The Birth of Venus. Her mouth filled with me.
A few days passed after our last date; Monica seemed to disappear again. It had been hard to get hold of her. On some nights, I had to pretend as if she had never existed. But the headaches remained, along with my refusal to look at the mirror down the hall. I was avoiding what I had seen there. Monica had pulled me out of the suffocating life inside the manor. But her absence felt like an infection growing in my throat.
Today, I arrived late at the hospital. The lump inside me kept growing; without Monica, it would become malignant. A nurse’s voice snapped me out of my thoughts, telling me a patient was already waiting in the operating room.
The working hours had gone by quickly. I was hoping, almost begging, that she would call. She always did this, going on and off with me. I did not understand her game, but I was willing to go along with it and see where it would lead.
When I got back home, I visited the chamber. It looked the same as before, undisturbed. Down with me were printed photos of Monica; I laid them on the bed while I rested.
I closed my eyes while I massaged the top of my pants. In a moment, I felt a surge of desire, moaning before I even came. But something inside me gripped my chest tightly, and I had to stop. When I opened my eyes, I felt an urge to be flayed down to the bones. I should never have touched myself like that without the canvas. Light-headed, I was on the verge of cutting my throat in front of the mirror, driven by disappointment and the despair of not hearing from her.
The hopelessness dragged me down every night. Still, I knew I had to move forward with reality. I had a hunch she would come around, since she could not seem to take her eyes off me. If she did not reach out to me, I might return to birdwatching.
Multiple surgeries had kept me occupied for the time being. I was trying to push my dubious thoughts of Monica away from my work. That morning I saw Sophie enter. What luck I had. She smiled and greeted me in her usual high-pitched tone. Her arms moved a little too freely as Claire handed her the patient records. Unexpectedly, a notification popped up on my phone. It was Monica. She wanted to meet me later that evening at Le Verbe et l’Objet. I was not excited, of course, though I was intrigued. Why?
When I reached the location, Monica was standing at the entrance, scanning the crowd for me. Her legs looked stiff, and she shifted her weight to ease the fatigue. I had intentionally made her wait, watching from behind a bookshop across the street.
An hour had passed. She checked her watch repeatedly, her facial muscles tightening like crumpled paper with irritation. She pulled out her phone and called me, but I ignored it. Just as she seemed ready to give up, I ran a hand through my hair, took a breath, and crossed the pedestrian lane, waving at her.
“So, do you mind telling me why you’re late?” she scoffed, her cheeks flushed with anger. “I’ve been here for almost two hours, and you didn’t even answer my calls. This is a mistake. I should go.”
Monica turned her back and walked away. She did not hesitate. I wondered how much anger she harbored within her. The crowd seemed uninterested in her drama, so I continued to follow her until I reached her, then approached her again.
“Monica, I’m sorry. Please talk to me,” I said, smirking as I walked behind her.
“What… what do you even have to say?” she snapped, gripping her phone on her right hand.
I lowered my gaze, letting my shoulders fall, arranging my expression into something apologetic.
“I was on my way when a client called me for an emergency meeting,” I said, reaching out to her. “I’m sorry, Monica. It’s my fault.”
Monica pulled away, breathed heavily. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she struggled to speak.
I looked at her, contrite. “I should have texted you.”
“Stay away from me,” she whispered, her eyes fixed on me.
I stepped closer. “I’m sorry.”
“I told you, stay away!” she shouted and slapped me.
My fists tightened; my chest went cold. She had humiliated me, but I needed to keep my composure.
“I can’t believe I let myself fall into this shitshow!” she continued, shaking her head.
“Look, I’m sorry. If you don’t want to see me again, fine. I’ll leave you alone,” I said, lowering my voice.
“You know why I didn’t call you? It was because I was thinking,” Monica said, smiled sarcastically, raising a brow at me.
“Why?” I replied, my voice lower and guarded as I began unbuttoning my shirt.
“Because I thought, maybe he was just anxious around me. Maybe I should give this man a chance. I always fall for the wrong guys, thinking I could fix them,” she sighed, sniffling.
I could not utter a word, not even a single sentence. I began to stutter. I moved toward her, but immediately stopped myself. I gasped at her words. A while ago, I was about to shatter her face. Now I did not know. I mean, it was all her fault, disappearing and playing games with me.
Monica was a vixen in my eyes; she transformed into something I wanted only to see shoved onto and hung from a meat hook. All the touching and the piercing were gone. I could decapitate her and take only the best parts.
“Andre, I don’t know anymore. Was I too silly to get mad at you?” she wondered, her hands reaching for my arms. “When you looked like you had just lost a battle, I felt guilty. Please say something.”
I stared at the people passing by on the sidewalk. My body was shivering, almost giving out. It felt as though my mouth had been sealed with duct tape. I could not move, not even react to her touch.
“Andre?” Monica asked, her expression changing, her eyes that once seemed cold now gentle.
“Monica…” I muttered, removing her hands from my arms. “I’m sorry for making you wait.”
Monica did not seem to hear what I had just said. She stared at me with the same worried expression and continued murmuring words I could not understand.
By then, I was locked away again, far from her; I was visualizing all the things that brought comfort. I was like a Pierrot, melancholic, ruined, and shamed by the very woman I wanted to frame like a beautiful portrait hanging on the walls of the chamber. I imagined pulling the strands of her hair, feeling the dampness and the stickiness of her insides as she continued to bleed from humiliation.
The entire date had been a disaster. Still, Monica asked me to walk her to her apartment. The whole time, neither of us spoke. We walked like strangers, waiting for the other to say something.
At home, I lay on the bed, feeling drained by the evening. Monica had exhausted me with all her drama. I went straight to the bathroom to shower, scrubbing myself raw, trying to erase every trace of her. The weight of her presence lingered on my skin. The humiliation consumed me.
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