This is either because I feel the need to post something or because
I'm procrastinating over work... Possibly a cathartic release, as
well.
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The city is Paris, a damp October evening. Rain falls steadily from
the dark heavens, dousing the few scant souls still scurrying around
the streets with mildly acidic waters im****ted from the Atlantic. The
neon signs along Rue de La Fayette blaze in wild contrast to the
elegance of multi-story flats that tower along the wide street. Those
who dare risk exposing their eyes can see the revolving beam of light
from the Eiffel Tower piercing through the night sky.
Within one the flats, lit only by a small desk lamp and the amber glow
of the inner city, sits a figure, fingers tapping gently on a
keyboard. The black screen in front of him is slowly filling with
characters, their white shadows dancing slowly up the page, a conga of
electronic euphoria. A cat purrs at his feet, the body warmed by the
gentle breeze from the computer's fan.
One of his arms is made of metal. His left arm was ripped off by a
back-street surgeon two years ago and given to a military veteran with
cash to lose on the essentials. The metal fingers have been taught
how to press gently; a stash of broken keyboards at the bottom of a
wardrobe bear testament to the slow process. But the metal is
functional and, if nothing else, plus cool que l'orignial, n'est
pas?.
The cat doesn't like being stroked by it though.
The program is almost finished now. Just the last section to pen.
Nothing fancy here; just a small coda, a little trill on the end of
the score. Another composer might smile at it, see the ingenuity in
the music; the listener will probably ignore it and concentrate on the
main body of the work. Ca suffit pour moi.
Outside, a police car wails by, self-pressurising tyres easing their
way through the sodden streets. The siren comes on, tyres screech for
a second, then readjust as the car hurtles around a corner,
disappearing into the warren that heads towards the Seine. The police
inside, armoured jackets and helmets already donned, are probably off
to see their girlfriends. No doubt their wives suspect as much.
Ah, amour. It binds the city together, much more efficiently than the
dank, reeking Metro, or the towering and expensive flats. Stronger
than a language corrupted by im****ts, more intoxicating than the
Republic-approved wines. Ah, amour, je t'aime l'amour.
He rises, ****fting the cat from his toes with a plaintive mewling,
presses a button and leaves the compiler running. He's ****d from the
waist up, a well-formed chest slipping into the night above tattered
jeans, bare feet chilled as he taps across the wooden floor to the
kitchen. Leftover pizza is reheated in the NanoWave. A hot coffee is
poured, held in the left hand - no pain sensors there.
He moves to stand by the open doors to his balcony, gazing out up and
down the street, imaging the worlds behind the curtains, that no one
is allowed to see. Dreams and happenstance cloud his mind; of lives
perhaps unlived. Of empty rooms, where, from behind the windows,
nothing but silence stares back.
She steps out onto her balcony, a tight white top against firm
breasts, black jeans grip her legs; showing off her sculpted body.
She lights a cigarette, the antiquated flame of the match illuminating
her face just so for the moment. The shadow soon falls back in place,
the brunette hair reverting to black in the late night glow.
He'd seen her before he moved here. On the Prole-tube, a presenter or
something. Someone to admire, gaze at longingly, to almost touch
every day. He's seen the pictures of her before she was sculpted. He
preferred her before; less augmented, more natural.
A sigh and the computer beeps, tearing him from the vision of wet
black and white. An error message. He ****ed up. How like life;
he'll try again.
He walks back to the chair as the cat springs out past him, knocking
one leg off balance and into the sofa. His left arm clenches,
unconsciously, and his leg is covered in warmth. He hears, too late,
breaking china.
Merde.
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