It Rains In Paris Too


Paris Street; Rainy Day 1877 by Gustave Caillebotte.

“It’s gotten to the point where I don’t even understand half of the things you say anymore. It’s like you’re speaking a different language.” Clarice stopped talking when she realized she had been tuned out.

Henri cleared his throat and stammered, “Of course, you’re right.”

This was not the first time Clarice noticed Henri’s lingering stares whenever they passed teenage boys. She always assumed that it was a man thing reminiscing about the youth they had lost. She was now thinking otherwise. Had she unwittingly turned into a beard?

Henri kept staring.

“You should take a picture. It will last longer.” Clarice said. Her tone oozed with utter resentment.

Henri’s face turned red. “If you’re implying that I’m having homosexual thoughts. Well, I don’t even know where to begin.”

Clarice feared that she had become her mother all over again, nothing more than an enabler. She squeezed Henri’s arm and pinched his bicep. He, in return, yelped, “Ow, ow, ow, what in hell’s name is wrong with you?”

Clarice growled, “I swear to God, have enough respect for me to tell me the truth.”

Henri nodded slowly. He fully understood the severity of the situation. “You’re right. You deserve the truth.”

Henri clutched his heart and pretended to have a heart attack, flailing about until he fell on his back. Clarice kicked him squarely in the face and moved to Jamaica, where she fell in love with a heroin addict named Lou.

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