HORSE MEAT
Opening my eyes was painful, my head throbbed, and my vision was blurred. Rolling over onto my side I realized I had company. Who was this women lying there, half-naked and warm? She was wearing one of my shirts; I rolled her on to her back, and looked into her face. Through my haze, I beheld an angelic face. The nose was delicate the eyebrows manicured to perfection. Her lips demanded to be kissed. Her golden hair was pruned short, and delicately arranged. Who was this teenage Goddess? Smeared lipstick across the sheets betrayed a night of lust. I had to pee. The haze was beginning to dissipate; rolling over I looked in to the ashtray. A large roach stared back at me; I put it in my mouth and fumbled for my lighter. A glass crashed to the floor as I grasped my lighter. The haze was definitely starting to dissipate, I lit the roach. Good morning reality let the games begin, I inhaled deeply. I still had to pee. Soon the haze returned, and explosive testicles demanded I make a move, So I got up.
As I savored the first morning pee, it dawned on me that peeing was orgasmic, a long awaited pee with a sudden release was wonderful. My bliss was interrupted by a voice emanating from the bedroom "cheri" it said. " Oui mon amour" I replied, Who was this women? I walked back into the bedroom in all my naked beauty. She lay there head propped up by her arm she smiled. Pale blue eyes scanned my naked nineteen-year-old body, seeing lust in her eyes, and not in the mood for early morning sexual gymnastics I spoke.
"Would you like some coffee" " hashish" she replied. I walked over to the table, picking up the "bong" I handed it to her, she smiled. Turning around I walked off towards the kitchen.
As I watched the coffee drips accumulate one drop at a time, I tried to remember last night. Last night had been typical of the last few nights, friends arrived, and the party had picked up were it had left of the night before. Who is that lascivious goddess in my bed? Her face began to materialize in my mind. Yes now I remembered, we had met over lunch yesterday. I was lunching alone when she walked into the cafeteria. I could see her eyes panning the busy room, I watched as her gaze arrived, we made eye contact. We both smiled; she walked over to my table and set down. She looked hungry, and tired. She carried no purse an aura of destitution surrounded her. " Can I buy you lunch? They have a strange striped steak for lunch very tasty," I said. She smiled. I went back to the cafeteria line, picking up a small baguette, a salad, and a bottle of burgundy; I waited patiently for the chef to finish flambéing the zebra striped steak. She aet hardy and did not speak, I watched in silent amusement, it was a pleasure to see her eat.
Done with lunch we chatted, her name was Michelle. She had left home and hitchhiked from the south of France to Paris in search of adventure. She wanted to be a writer, but could not find anything to say. Needing to find her inner voice and a good yarn, she had left home. She had walked to the edge of the road and put out her thumb. It was an existential decision, no money, no clothes, and no goodbyes, she had just walked out the door. She had been on the road for eleven days, and she wanted a bath. We walked through the narrow cobbled stones of the Latin Quarter, and found ourselves on boulevard St. Michelle. I bought her some toiletries, and some lipstick.
We discussed Jean Paul Sarter and weather one should act on instantaneous decisions. I argued that there was no such thing as instantaneous decision. I believed that all prior decisions led to the current decision, and that the next decision was inevitable. She looked at me and smiled " so you mean our meeting was inevitable." Yes I replied, as corny as that sounds that is so. She pondered this revelation in silence, she suddenly smiled and spoke. " If all our decision are really made by our previous decisions, where was the first decision? There had to be a first decision somewhere. So this theory is wrong, am I right? "No my dear I said. There never was a first decision in the first place. In order for a first decision to exist it would have to be fixed in time. Since there is no time and all things are in constant motion, from our hair down to our toes. Even in our DNA structure, motion is taking place. There is no beginning, life is constantly in motion, on every level, from the microscopic to the cosmic. The dance of life goes on. The orchestra never stops. She pondered this in silence as we walked through the gardens of Bois De Boulogne, on our way to my apartment.
I opened the front door, and we stepped into the lobby of my building. Michelle looked around for the elevator, looking at her I smiled " no elevator?" " I thought you said you lived in the penthouse" "I do" she walked to the edge of the stairs and looked up. Like an Esher drawing the thirteen flights of stairs seem to end at infinity. She looked at me in bewilderment, I laughed. "Believe me the climb is well worth the abode, and the rent is cheap". My apartment was magnificent, four large bedrooms, a well-equipped kitchen, and a spacious bathroom. The ceilings came together at strange angles, following the contour of the roof. Each window offered a different view of Paris. The climb to get there was arduous at first, but once my body adapted, I marched up merrily. Coming down was a breeze, I loved to run down the stairs and, by the time I made it to the outside door I was wide-awake.
There was an advantage in having demanding stairs. The rent was cheap. No one came to your door on a whim. Only friends, adamant in their resolve made it to my abode.
Looking down at the coffee maker, I realized the dripping had stopped. I poured the black nectar into my favorite mug and searched for the sugar cubes. Lying by the sugar cube bowl, was a small chunk of Hashish, I threw into the cup, along with four sugar cubes.
Walking back into the living room I saw Michelle standing naked by the large window. I walked over to her and, stood by her side. She leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. We both stood there naked looking down at the cobbled stoned courtyard down below. We could hear distant clacking soon a gate opened and, old man wearing a dirty beret, stepped into the courtyard. The man was swinging a large wooden mallet in his right hand, while pulling on a horse bridal with his left. A tired old horse stepped into the yard. Having reached the middle of the yard they stopped. The man gently removed the bridal, and petted the horse’s forehead. Turning around he took three measured steps forward, and grasping the mallet with both hands he raised it above his head, and with all his might he cracked the head of the horse. My coffee cup fell from my hand. Michelle turned to me and smiled, "striped steak, very tasty".