A Love Song, From Paris

; she wishes to be someone else. he has numbers on his hand. she lost her rose. he has nowhere to paint. all of them has nowhere to go.

It's a cliché�"a common story, 

     But that's all it ever is; a story. A thing you hear but has never really happened. Meeting a stranger while travelling alone. Nobody ever travels alone.

      I did. 

      The goal was leisure, the purpose was need. Aubrey Hepburn often did say that Paris is always a good idea, she's told me so many times in black and white movie screens. I've already lost track of how many Parisian sunrises woke me up, how many hats I've bought, how many croissants and cheese omelettes I've eaten�"it was an altered state of mind, a not-so dream.
      The Eiffel was turning into a joke to me. 

      Another welcome constant was the singing. It's only natural that your balcony stays open when you're in Paris. Why close it anyway? And every afternoon I'd hear this song from the balcony right next to mine. I didn't know what language it was in, only that it was definitely about heartbreak. It takes a broken heart to know one. It was like a wolf howl, you'd definitely hear a cry like yours echoing back to you.

      I wrote the singer a note the other day. Of course, this apparition only existed during the afternoon. And that afternoon, as lunch-goers lazily lounge in their seats, bellies full in warm restaurants, the voice came back. I felt excited even if I expected it, like a calculated meteor shower. Again, I heard the same song until the last stanza;

      ...And I could walk through the streets of Paris, but 

      What about the lady 

      Waiting, 

      Sitting in the love-filled air, 

     Waiting, for 

     The singer with a love song 

     That is not hers? 

     But what love song is for anybody at all?

      My hands caught my warm milk, after almost dropping my mug. I heard a melodic chuckle. "Y-you've seen my note?" I asked the mystery person. 

      It took a while before I got a response. In perfect English the voice replied, "I've known you've been listening. A few days before. I kept singing because I knew you would keep listening." 

      I smiled. "What language was that? The song you always sing?" 

      "French. And Italian. I mixed them up. Quite nice, no?" I couldn't put a finger on the accent. The voice didn't sound like a girl, nor a boy. It was perfectly in the middle, in a category on its own, refusing to be anything human. 

      "So...what are you? I mean your ethnicity, I mean where you came from, like, um," 

      Again, a chuckle. "I'm French. But my mother is English, my dad's American. My name is�"" THUD

      "What was that?'

      "Sorry, my ukelele fell. Almost had a heart attack there." A small pause, "This is kind of my most prized possession. It's my mom's."

      I thought for a moment, taking a bite of my blueberry macaron. Bright flowers swayed to the sound of quiet car rides. I imagined the owner of the voice to fit right in this scene. "What does it look like? The ukelele?" I asked, leaning back on the wall between our balconies. 

      "Well, it's yellow. It has a violet ribbon. And it smells like home." 

      It sounded exactly how it felt like. "Is that what you were singing about? Home?"

      I could've seen the voice, taking form. A willowy body in light blue. "No�"Yes, in a way. She felt like home for some time. But her heart was not a house, I learned that the painful way. Woke up one day and she was gone. Flew back to where her home was." I didn't notice that soft music was playing again. "Now I am here, playing and singing for a lady I haven't seen yet instead of the street crowds because who wants to see a lonely musician, singing about heartbreak?" 

      "So you're a street performer?" I asked again.

      "Naw, that's my mom. I only do it during the summers, I study at the Parisian Institute of Art. I sketch, my mother sings and my dad writes. My family is quite harmonious so to speak, sorry for the pun." Then some weird noises emerged, "�"sorry, tuned the uke a bit. Anyways, yes. I decided to take a break from the streets of Paris. They are not very forgiving to the people with broken hearts such as we."

      I laughed darkly, "Too many people asked me where my lover is. Excuse me, mademoiselle, are you waiting for anybody? Oh, yes, where is your husband, darling? No? A fiancée? I'm nineteen! It's like they don't know that before two pieces make a whole, the pieces are a whole too. I'm a whole being by myself." I caught myself. "Sorry. I didn't mean to rant." 

      I waited, again, for a reply. 

      As if remembering I was there, the voice spoke up hastily. "I just got up. And I was making this," I suddenly felt a piece of paper slide beside my fingertips. It was a sketch of a shop. Chansons d'amour d'Ana, it said on the note behind it. "Meet me there tomorrow. Maybe we can fool these streets for just one day. We'll be two wholes, not needing another half. Paris wouldn't know, it'll be courteous to us. What do you say?"

      I nodded before realizing the person wouldn't know I was. I answered, "Yeah�"Yes. I'll be the one in lilac." I quickly decided.

      "The lightest shade of violet. Then, I'll be the one in the palest shade of yellow. Maybe then you'll tell me your story; why you're missing your other whole, what made you figure out a heartbreak song when you didn't know what language it was in. It takes a broken heart to know one, aye?"

      My face contorted into a small smile as I heard soft footsteps grow fainter until I couldn't hear them anymore. I looked back at the Eiffel. It was starting to light up with a faint glow, kind of like me. It still felt like a joke to me but tomorrow, it will be the fool�"and I, I hope, will learn to laugh with these streets.

  ©2016 W.Greene, All Rights Reserved

Author's Note

Every writer knows the struggle.

There are too many things to write about but your hands aren't fast enough and your brain easily comes up with a new idea, lighting quick. Your whole body is a confusing paradoxical thing. Mine was, and is, no exception.

This isn't the first book that I wanted to put out to the world. But I can never find myself struggling to finish what I've started writing, I only end up writing a completely new chapter, a completely new book. I couldn't stay completely idle either (there's this thing that stops me from being completely stupidly still—it's called a brain.)

The whole process burned me out.

Someone suggested I try this app that gave out creative suggestions, it was to fuel the artist. "Draw something beautiful from something tragic," it challenged me. I didn't get to screenshot it but my mind already did that for me.

One day I scrolling through youtube, I found a song so fucking beautiful that I hated how it broke my heart—it was a perfect fit. That's how I started writing these stories.

Each one is inspired by a song I would hear,

Every story takes me days to write because I wanted to make people feel what these songs make me feel. Creating a story is easy, making people interested is fairly easy too, but putting out stories that would make them feel exactly how you need to? That's the thing I struggled with, and god damn it, I did struggle. I hated writing without passion, and writing a whole book can really make you forget the whole emotion you're supposed to put out. A feeling is strong, it punches quick but it's the aftermath that breaks you—just like a short story.

So here they are, love.

Enjoy my writer's struggles and my human's emotions. I hope you feel the songs in these chapters.


W. Greene