For 1000 word challenge, original, G

[ink_splotch]

Precipice

’It was raining,’ he wrote, green fountain pen on crisp white paper. ‘It was raining, gentle rain that obscures the city and paints it with deeper mystery than is perhaps deserved.’

There are no formal greetings on this letter, written to a friend so old that no greetings are needed; none are sufficient. She will not care: she will observe his style, sometimes despair of his grammar; it will not occur to her to wonder about the lack of greeting or signature. His life is a story for her in some ways, despite all their history.

‘It was raining,’ he wrote that day, dated by the writer as the 21st of March. No year, but a time: the letter was finished by 11:50 pm. The information is written in blue ballpoint.

‘Paris is always beautiful in the rain; your London can’t begin to compare. It blurs our city until we cannot help but see it as a ghost and premonition: Paris present, past and future are all alive in the drizzle of rain and the grey clouds that accompany it.

I woke content - I did not feel unusually happy. The curtains had been pulled away, revealing a view, my dear, a view that I cannot do justice in words; you must imagine for yourself the shrouded buildings, the low hanging clouds, the Eiffel Tower barely visible. A flashback scene in black and white; that is the best description I can give - perhaps your imagination can aide you better from there.’

The reader will stop here, smile. She knows Paris in the rain and finds him dramatizing, but she has always considered him the romantic, and she humours his inclinations enough to picture the city as he has described it. Perhaps the image is borrowed from a scene in one of the films he has instructed, but the picture is there in her head.

‘I woke alone, facing the window. The bed was warm around me, the room cool enough to be almost refreshing. I lay there, enjoying sensations: the smell of coffee, the sound of raindrops. I lay there, confining my world to the room, thinking of nothing much; perhaps I thought of writing to you later, perhaps I discarded the idea because I felt I had nothing to tell, no tales for you. I cannot remember; I thought of small trivialities. The morning is a ridiculous time for brilliant thoughts - it’s too pleasant to be trifled with in such a clumsy manner.’

There is a slight blot here, a misspelling or, if she knows him, a discarded word, too dramatic or too simple to fit the style of this letter. This will not be the first letter; it will be a fourth or fifth edition, perfectly edited to convey truth; as much truth as there is in a person’s emotions and mind.

‘It is strange to think such innocuous beginnings, such, when put to paper, unremarkable circumstances that marked this morning, that marked this day. Or perhaps it is fitting; I leave you to judge, I’ve never been good with symbols and omens.

When I finally rose, it was because there was a sudden clatter of noise in the kitchen, a brief sound of metal, wood and floor. I pulled on clothes, more from habit than anything else. I watched the rain for a few moments more, opening the window to breathe in the scent of rain and city mixing.

I must have gone down the stairs more quietly than I usually do; the rain may have drowned out my footsteps, or maybe Mané’s concentration had simply focused so hard that he did not care for every day noises; he did not notice me, even when I stood in the door.

Oh, Claire! It was nothing remarkable, nothing out of the ordinary. Mané was sitting at the kitchen table, no lights turned on in the kitchen, paintbrushes spread on the table, some on the floor, a paint-box and tin-can of water next to him. In his hand he held an egg - I know now that it was in fact an eggshell – and painting it. The egg was nothing; pink, purple, yellow, red, blue; the patterns largely unremarkable, traditional. The light did not play in any way I have not seen before; it was grey and airy as it is during rainfalls; it did not illuminate his hair, not grace his brushes in any way worthy of note.’

She smiles at this; he always seeks magic, seeks signs in weather, in lighting. He once said, when he was younger and a good deal more confused, that he wanted to see life as a movie.

‘Mané himself was as he always is; his hair was perhaps a little more unruly, he was maybe a little more focused. At his elbow two finished eggs lay. He had dressed in yesterday’s clothes; his shirt was worn at the elbows and on his cheek there was a blot of pink paint.

I cleared my throat; he looked up and smiled, showing me the half finished egg. “For my niece, for Easter,” he said, waving the brush idly in the air.

There was nothing out of the ordinary - even the thought wasn’t accompanied by any flashes or bangs in my head. It was just there, as if it had been hidden all the while in the attic of my mind, sequestered away for the most appropriate time. I love him, Claire. I love him.’

The letter ends there; she is surprised to find herself crying. It seems strange - she has known for months, though he apparently has not, yet she feels loss. Perhaps she fears this is the last barrier between him and adulthood; maybe this is where their story ends.

Her girlfriend comes home hours later to find her sitting on their couch, letter still in hand, tearstained. “Are you okay?” she asks, concern showing in her no longer youthful face.

Claire smiles. “I am happy,” she answers.

Comments

[thewayout.livejournal.com]

Beautiful.

[vampirespider.livejournal.com]

Thank you :)

[lattara.livejournal.com]

I agree with Julie: simply beautiful.