just touch my cheek before you leave me, baby

“Oh, that’s funny,” Vivienne said, adopting a pensive expression. “I always thought you might be quite good to have around, if you need a punch or two thrown at someone.” She throws her friend a wink. “No idea why, but there you are!”

“Mmm. Well you’re definitely doing better than me then, love!” Vivienne glanced around them before wandering to a desk and perching on it. “Oh, not at all! If anyone forgets having the pleasure of your company, perhaps it’s best to assume the poor dear is a bit dim.” She pauses slightly. “That’s terrible, isn’t it? … Oh well, he’s not here to hear me. What do I care?!”

She wondered whose arm might’ve been lucky enough to be attached to Lusine’s that night. It hadn’t escaped her – over the years, as  she’d gotten close to some of Paris’s ladies of the night – that there was a sizeable chance that some of their most generous clients might be gentlemen who Vivienne had shared the odd glass of wine or bit of chat with herself. Once or twice, she’d even wondered about mentioning a name or two, to see how astute her theories might be. Mostly, she had held off, thinking it was tacky. But she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t curious.

Vivienne’s gaze followed Lusine’s to the bookshelf. Before long, she couldn’t resist the urge to make her way over. “Well,yes, exactly! I should’ve taken that as some sort of hint, really. Old Reginald–” At least, she thinks that’s his name – “He must be about 91, by the look of him. I vaguely remembered him as being quite charming a number of years ago, so I had thought I might be in for some fun. He is sweet, in a rather musty way. Not much for dancing though, sadly.”

Her eyes fall on the book again. “Anything to note in that? A nice murder, or something? An earnest proposal of marriage, maybe?” A smile suddenly crosses her face. “You’re really a sappy romance reader? Hmm. I ought to have sent you one or two, to keep you company on your travels.”

“A musty way!” Lusine exploded into a bout of giggles. “Poor dear— both you and him. I’m unsure if there’s such a thing already, but if not, there really ought to be some type of etiquette-like classes for these men to take that will help them know how to properly interact with women.” 

Lusine shook her head at the flipping pages beneath her. “Then again, they do just fine without it, don’t they?” she said with an apparent bitterness on her tongue. “Even if there was such a thing, their pride wouldn’t dare--” 

“I’m rambling!” she said in a quick breath, snapped the book shut, and placed it back on the shelf. “Nothing interesting in here, I’m afraid, just numbers and such. It would be wonderful to open one of these bricks only to find that it’s been hollowed out with a copy of Venus in Furs tucked inside.” Her fingers grazed the many spines on the shelf before the hand dropped to her side. “Too much to wish for, I suppose.” 

“Sometimes,” she admitted to the question. “They can be quite entertaining, depending on the story. Some are funny, some sweet, others are... well... Do you not indulge from time to time?” 

“It would be my pleasure,” he said, dramatically bowing towards her and offering her and arm to hold onto as he lead her out of the gallery. “It’s not a full bar, of course. Only a temporary set up, I’m certain, with only wine and champaign–this being a classy place and all–but they would have to offer something to get people in the door for, well, this.”

On the entry floor of the museum, he ordered them each a glass of wine, brought them to one of the small tables arranged neatly in the grand lobby. 

“And how did you end up here?” he asked as he settled into a seat and extended a glass to her. “Tell me you’re living a better life than that of an artist?”

“I was asking myself that very question before you came about.”  

A glass in hand was just what she needed, and she clinked her wine with his in a little cheers--to new friends!-- before taking a sip. It wasn’t a full bar, but at least the wine wasn’t cheap. 

“Some would call me an artist.” She shrugged a shoulder. “The boring truth of it is that I am just a dancer with a night to herself, for once. I never make plans if I can help it so I am free to wander, which typically yields interesting results, but occasionally I have a dud of a night staring at paintings of drowning women.”

Lusine sighed and nursed her wine. 

Given the circles this particular Angel flew in, Dani rather doubted that she’d never heard about what went on behind the closed, deadbolted, hidden away doors of the Lotus. And once you caught wind of that, well. There were other whispers. Not bandied about so freely - yes, Dani could say that with some confidence. Perhaps he didn’t see too good, but he could listen in just fine. The what of The Blue Lotus flitted about, enjoying the best brand of advertisement available: word of mouth. The why, the why of an American boxer abroad in Paris, trafficking in opium, that was barely a bit of idle chit chat. Because it went nowhere. Nowhere anybody wanted to be caught talking about, at least. Better to just enjoy their pipe dreams, pay their tab, and go on their merry way. 

Lusine, she was no hophead. Could spot ‘em a mile away, now. He wasn’t about to suspect her of being some stoolie, either. No, they liked the desperate ones for that sort of thing. If there was any desperation to her days, well. She hid it so damn well that she’d be wasted on some sting, and Lusine, she was far and away too wise to waste herself on anything. Or so Dani figured, anyway. 

Which made her coming along to this little tea party some kind of flattering, didn’t it? Just might. Abe clocked his head back against Dani’s shin, whining for a scratch. He obliged, chuckling. “Well, I was here before they went dry, so…” Could only imagine it now. “Where I grew up… I wouldn’t call it lawless, exactly. There was law all over, more’s the pity. New York’s finest, busting in doors, windows… skulls…” he shook his head, gave Benny a solid pat-pat for good measure. Had to be fair. “Maybe it was a rough place, but let me tell you - the boys in blue never made a thing better, not for us.” With a sip of tea, Dani sighed. Snickered, just a bit. “Irish bastards. Doubt pouring out all the beer does their attitude any good. As for the West, wild or otherwise, can’t say I’ve ever been. Could still be wearing spurs out there, for all I know.”

"Lucky duck,” she coos and sips at her tea.

The cup finds its saucer with a little clink, and she leans back in her seat to listen to his tale. Her gaze drops to the obedient pooch’s head and the large hand atop it. She wonders if his hands always looked like mitts, or if that was a byproduct of the occupation—busting skulls of his own in the ring. Regardless of how they came out, they seemed to please the pup at his side, and that brought a smile to her face.

“The boys in blue--” she repeated his words, her own accent twisting their shape in a way that made her want to laugh, and she wondered if she sounded as funny to his ears as he did to hers. The accent was something many of her American patrons tended to fixate on, asking her to speak all types of things to make them swoon over. She never quite understood their obsession, but it was humorous, nonetheless. 

She once whispered what she could remember from La Closerie’s menu into the ear of an American patron that made him flustered in such a way that she still laughed about it, years later.

Lusine would not have minded hearing Delione’s deep voice as a whisper, but that was not a conversation to be had over tea. Besides, she quite enjoyed their friendly tête-à-têtes as they were.

“I understand what you mean, with these boys in blue.” She sat quietly for a moment, deliberating just how much she was willing to divulge about her understanding as she studied Benny’s expression. 

Her attention is returned to the pugilist, and she leans closer. “Not many know this, but I was a child of the street, which has given me an innate...” she paused to find the right word, “exasperation of authority, as well as the church. It seems whenever there is fun to be had they are the first to try to stomp it out. Funnily enough, we have plenty of officers visit us at Le Ciel, but their badges are nowhere to be found.” 

“Of course… I would have guessed it was yours even without your presence.”

Phillip took the glass of champagne and sipped at it, watching her as she sat down. His eyes scanned the room, and he found a place to sit as well, desperately trying to keep this as least awkward as possible. She seemed to glide in everything she did, it was difficult to compete.

“Thank you, I appreciate it.” He told her with a chuckle, sipping at the champagne again, and praying that she was right in that it would help with his nerves.

He watched her as she got comfortable, and briefly wondered how often she got to be like this with her patrons. She seemed perfect, especially when on stage, that he doubted she got to relax very often. It would ruin the illusion - although, she had only told him minutes before that what was on stage was more or less what was off stage, as well: a concept he was completely unfamiliar with.

“You’ve done a marvelous job, I must say.” He watched as she downed the glass of champagne and, briefly, his eyebrows flicked up, but he let them drop again after a quick second. And then, she asked him a question.

He stared into her eyes for a moment and pursed his lips, calculating is reply. “What would you like to know?”

Lusine stretched her leg out as she thought about the question, pointing and stretching her toes as she did so to stretch the sore muscles. 

“Ohhh,” she mused, “Anything, really. Whatever you are willing to share.” 

Perhaps it was selfish of her, in a way, but this was something she often did with the few patrons and friends she felt particularly attached to. This happened especially during the prelude to a connection of any kind when the buzz of meeting someone new was frightening, anxious, and exciting all at once. The act of sharing secrets made for quick friendships, in her experience. 

“If you will trust me with one of yours, I shall trust you with one of mine, and then we will be bonded for life. Thick as thieves, as they say. You see, I quite adore you, Phillip, and I hope you will allow me to.” 

The way Annette’s face brightens mirrors the way Lusine’s glows when she reveals that she has a true lover of her own. All of a sudden, the Belleville brothel, it’s hideous proprietor, and the long line of patrons they have both endured are the farthest thing from her mind. She cannot help but laugh as the older woman slips herself with grace from the chaise and joins her on the floor. For the first time in a long while, Netty understands what it means to feel as giddy as a schoolgirl.

“Him. His name is Bhari. Bhari Sinclair,” her cheeks become pink just saying his name, the curve of them lifting in the most helpless, happy smile. She gives Lusine’s hands a squeeze.

“He’s English. And he’s a writer! He’s written a book. I…I haven’t read it, but I’ve heard it’s very, very good.” Though Annette doubts she will ever be brave enough to read the tome for herself – it’s hard enough for her own imagination to paint scenes of what the war was like for him, she believes she’ll be beside herself if the gory details become confirmed. 

“He’s the most…gentle and melancholy thing I have ever seen in my life. He’s so beautiful, Tata, I almost cannot believe he is real. I’m absolutely, desperately in love with him – and I’ve never been so frightened.”

“A him!” she squeaked. Lusine could not keep herself from wanting to react to every single word left Annette’s lips. She hung off every last one of them. 

English! A writer! At first, she finds it difficult to imagine such a man in a night club—the image in her head is of a man who would rather cling to a typewriter than a woman’s curves, but she knows that anything could happen in Paris. Writers made for either gentle folk, or absolutely bonkers people, from her experience. A run-in with the infamous Hemingway, who somehow ‘accidentally’ pinched her bottom during a visit to Le Ciel put her off of the idea of writers altogether. Then again, he was American. But, the way in which Annette describes her beau softens her to the idea. 

The Venus’ expression softens, and at that moment she was almost certain she was in danger of melting right through the floorboards. The fairy’s fear was entirely understandable, but Lusine often felt like that fear was exactly what made love so beautiful. 

“Has he told you? My goodness—Have you told him!?”

“Well, actually,” he said through a smirk. His voice dropped low as if the next words to come from his lips would be his most closely guarded secrets, “I’m am a painter with a very convoluted theory about contrasting colors.” His arms folded lazily across his chest, his wine glass poised for another drink as he pretended to examine another painting.

“I also happen to think that painting dead women is the only way to express myself and the agony of how long it’s been since last I had a woman on her knees before me.” The blunt crassness of his statement was undercut by the way he could barely contain his laughter at the notion of it all. He glanced over at her, amused by his own pointless charade. “No, I assure you, I am no painter. But, I do believe I’ve shared a drink and a smoke with this particular artist and you’ll have to take my word for it, but my impression was spot on.”

Jack glanced around searching for an escape route. “I can’t possibly look at this for another moment. And there’s a wine bar set up downstairs,” he suggested, taking a few steps backwards towards the exit.

Lusine stepped away, swishing the skirt of her gown as she lazily paced about the room. “My condolences to your sanity, mon sucre,” she purred over her shoulder to the man. 

The rate at which her mood had come around was nothing short of incredible; she realized this the moment she was sent into a fit of wild giggles. Handsome and funny to boot, she liked this one. It was rare to find a man whose presence did not require a strenuous effort to pay attention to, but she seemed to have stumbled across it in the one place she thought she would not find such a thing. Artist types... 

That was the reason why she had no problem following his lead out of the room. That, and the booze. 

It was one kind of wonder to see the Ange de Venús onstage; another, to see her in person, up close. Even without the feathers, the drop-pearls, and the soft, golden light Le Ciel managed to magic up, Lusine was… well, Daniel had never claimed to be poetic, and that’s what you’d need to do her justice. So far be it from him to make a bad attempt. Just let it be said that the Angel really could sweep you away, no wings necessary. 

But it’d been a long time since Dani was a blushing, stammering romantic. There were many years, and thousands of miles, between then and now. So every other week, at least, he sat in the Angel’s audience, sipped a little cognac, and enjoyed her work. Listened, as his fellow patrons sighed and groaned at the sight. They were there to toss their money and a rose or two on that bright stage, to give their hearts away, if only for a while. Dani tipped extravagantly; Mam’selle Brindamour kept him in fine flowers, for just such an occasion. But his heart? Might as well be nailed down. Wasn’t about to lose that. 

(It was a crumpled up old thing, anyway. Hardly worthy of her collection, which must be weighed in tonnage by now.)

Made it easier to keep enough of his wits about to enjoy a proper conversation with her, when she soared down from the stage to fetch a drink and take in the admiration. They’d become downright acquainted. About time he had her around to the shop, really. 

“Well, funny story.” Most of his stories started that way. Americans - the French seemed to find them generally unbelievable. Simple, unremarkable explanations only made them more suspicious. Everything had to be at least a little madcap, have a twist, a turn, a bizarre character or two. With Lusine… he’d never felt the need to embroider too terribly much, before. Didn’t find it now. She’d get the respectfully straightforward lie. “I had a few last matches, back in New York. You know, the word was out, I was gonna pack it in, hang up my gloves for good. But there was always somebody else who wanted a swing. And somebody behind them, who’d pay well to see it happen…” Having served her up, Dani poured himself a cup and set the pot aside, next to the dish of chrysanthemums, delphinium, and baby’s breath that graced their table. “Then, one day, I’m doing this Chinatown gig. After, my friend, over there -” he nodded towards their hostess, currently ushering a couple to their table, “she comes up, introduces herself. She’s the sister of the guy who’s been knocking me around. And she’s wondering, if I’d take a punch from one of her people, maybe I’d take a business proposal. Not an everyday kind of thing, in America, you understand.” Paris wasn’t much different than New York, in that respect. Everybody had their prejudices. But here, seemed like he was an American before anything else; a moneyed American. Opened a lot of doors. Daniel settled into one of those cushioned wicker chairs; the dogs flopped at his feet, yawning in the afternoon haze. “Anyway, she wanted me to do some investing. Had this plan to be the next big thing on the Paris scene. Just needed the cash. I’d get a comfortable source of income, for my golden years, and a pretty place to retire to. Really sold me on the ambiance. The rest is history, right?”  

The little teacup hovered just before her lips as he told his story, and she looked upon him with great curiosity. It sounded true, for the most part, but if his tale were a garden, there was plenty of room left open for questions to pop up like little daisies. She never fancied herself a detective, just naturally nosey, but she knew better than to pry into the life of a man that looked like Daniel Delione. Her secret power was pulling secrets out of others, anyways. If not now, then perhaps time would bring the pugilist’s truth to her ears.

There was more to the teahouse than the Malefactor let on, but anyone in Paris with keen ears knew that much. Her eyes traveled to every door she could see in the establishment, wondering what she would find behind them. 

“The rest is history,” she repeated in agreement and took a sip of her tea.

“I’ve never been to America but it sounds as if the Wild West never truly died.” On the list of places she longed to travel to, the States were more than a few spaces down, in favor of smaller European countries and a few tropical places she’d heard about from her late husband’s lovers. Still, she found their literature to be lovely and often piqued her interest in the place Daniel called home. 

“Is it as lawless as it sounds? Besides the prohibition, that is. I don’t know how you all manage over there.” 

There are no words to describe how grateful Annette is to not see shame in Lusine’s eyes. To not feel judgement radiate from her gaze, as she had felt from so many others from the moment she’d been abandoned by the brothel and left to the mercy of her own limited cleverness on the streets.

She lets out an extended breath as something inside of her relaxes, a small smile spreading on her lips as she feels more freedom to speak to what has truthfully been happening to her, knowing that Lusine could understand her story perhaps better than what anyone else ever could.

 The woman knows parts of her that even Annette herself has forgotten.

“Well, you know men, all the money in the world does not make them kind if they have no heart,” Annette scoffs, lifting her chin off of the other woman’s knees and tucking the strands of her blonde pincurls behind her ears.  “But I do…Have someone…Not a patron…”

There are many things that a mother wishes for their child to receive in life: health, happiness, love. Those should be simple enough for anyone to find, but women like them were cut from a different cloth; they often had to choose just one, and could not have all three at one time. Love, health, or happiness? Which would you choose? 

Lusine was not a mother, but she did the best she could with those screaming babes in the back of the brothel that yearned for arms to hold them, and a warm breast to rest their little heads against. Leaving that brothel—the first home she’d ever known—to make something of her own life was a decision that weighed heavily on her mind, still. She was not proud of leaving, but she did not regret it either. The only thing that kept her torn about leaving were those children, Annette being the most prominent. 

Lusine spent too many nights lying awake, imagining how Adele’s little one ended up until the rocking of her train car lulled her to exhaustion. Some night the fantasies were better than others. She liked the nights when she imagined she’d married a Lord and moved to some far off place and had plenty of children of her own. 

That would not end up being the case, obviously, but just seeing her alive and well (for the most part) was just as good. 

It took Lusine a moment to understand what Annette was implying, but the moment she did it was as if her entire being lit up, and she dropped to sit beside her bunny and took her hands in her own.

“You must tell me all about him—or her. Whoever it is! Are you in love?” 

“I appreciate you inviting me here.” Phillip told her with a cordial smile, eyes scanning the room as she closed the door. He’d never been in a courtesan’s space before - well, as long as he wasn’t counting the main club, which he wasn’t.

Everything was ethereal. He supposed that was to be expected, both from Le Ciel, and from the Ange de Venus. She embodied the role perfectly, her body gliding when she moved, as if she wasn’t moving her feet at all. He had to assume that the years of dancing were the cause for such grace - but he wanted to believe it was just how the woman was. He wanted to believe that everything she portrayed was true. He hoped it was, actually, and that, other than the white lies she must tell patrons daily, she liked how she portrayed herself to people.

He was a bit nervous to be in her private room, actually, but that wasn’t something he would ever admit. This was what performers did, wasn’t it? Perhaps not at his age, although that didn’t seem to be stopping him from doing other things. 

“Much quieter, yes. I must say, the room suits you.”

“Do you really think so?” 

Lusine finished the pour and brought the boy his glass of champagne before plopping down on a large round hassock with her own, spilling a bit on the smoky purple fabric beneath her. She did not mind one bit. “That should help with the nerves, mon sucre.” 

Away from the maddening crowd, she could exist without worrying about how many pairs of eyes were on her back, and it was in moments such as those that she felt so unabashedly blissful. In the company of a man who held no expectations of her in the slightest, she was free to come undone. Lusine spread out atop the hassock, toes pointed like cupid’s arrows in the moments they were not joyously curling outside the constraints of her heels. 

“I have worked very hard to make this place cozy. You should have seen it before— absolutely terrible.” The Venus sighed.

 Quickly she emptied her glass, reveling as thousands of little bubbles swept over her tongue. Surely, it was meant to be sipped, but she just could not wait. Rarely was she allowed to drink during performances. 

She placed the glass on a little table beside her and propped her chin in her hand. “Will you tell me a secret?” 

One would certainly think that after more than a decade in this line of work, she would have learned to leave her hair free when entertaining patrons – as much as they seemed to compliment the pretty styles she created in her dressing room, they left her with nothing but monstrous tangles by the end of a session – but here she found herself. Though it was not a bad place to be, practically in the lap of the Venus, with her fingers expertly tugging on strands of golden blonde, she could hardly keep the red off her cheeks. 

“Surely I will have to learn my lesson one of these days, non?” Her words are muffled as she covers her blushing cheeks and embarrassed smile with the palms of her hands. “I always forget to take them out until it’s too late and they’re already poking me in the back of the skull. Occupational hazard when you drink champagne during warm-ups, I suppose.” A hazy head at the beginning of the night was a recipe for a disastrous morning after. 

At the very mention of cropped hair, Charlotte gasps and her hands reach for her curls. “Lusine, you may be able to pull off that style, but if you think for a moment you’ll have to crop mine to get these out, they’ll have to become a permanent part of my style from here on out.” She giggles, her hands returning to her sides. “Isn’t that dangerous, though? I have seen your act, it is a miracle you haven’t lost a wig mid firebird-leap.” 

The cherry blossom pins that she had so carefully placed throughout her waves the night prior were one of her favorite accessories, and as such they were rarely worn on stage. They were exclusively for special occasions. 

“I found them years ago, actually, at a market in Riquewihr that they held on the riverbanks. I went with my parents and used my allowance to purchase them.” 

“Absurdité!” Lusine squeals. “You would be gorgeous even if you were bald, and you know it, too!” One of the pins caught in Charlotte’s hair was wiggled by the Venus for emphasis. “Though I can’t imagine the types of men who fetishize that type of thing.” She giggled.

“It took some time to perfect, I cannot lie. I lost many wigs to shocked crowds back in the day. It always gave me a good chuckle after the show.” 

Whenever Lusine was asked how she differed from her stage personas, she would often say that there was no difference at all. That she was the Ange, and the Ange was her. In many cases, that was true, but not even she fully realized the little differences between the two—one of which was her hair. 

She remembered the first time she cropped it, back when Gerard swept her away from Paris. It felt freeing to do so, and she was so terribly surprised to find that her new beau did not mind the chop. The air on the nape of her neck made her feel as if she were a new woman in a new skin, capable of doing anything she wanted in this world, and she would. 

That feeling was one of the few things she kept for herself. Something that the Ange could not touch. 

Phillip nodded slightly at her answer, not surprised exactly, but there was some element of confusion in his thoughts. Many people’s goals in life were fame and fortune, and he had the former now, anyway… but it didn’t make him feel as fulfilled as he would have expected. Instead, he left every performance feeling empty, because no one wanted Elliot, they wanted Phillip. It was his own fault, for putting on a stage name and persona, and he knew that. He also knew, however, that if he did go up as Elliot, his audience would lose interest.

Yet, he couldn’t stop himself from going back on that stage. It was a kind of high while he was up there, and he crashed harder every time he left. 

Looking into her gaze again, the Crooner considered her invitation for a long moment, before nodding. “Of course, if it suits you.”

"It will suit you. Trust me.” 

                 ✷✷✷✷

"You should consider yourself lucky, my love. Normally you would have to pay to be allowed here.” The Venus teased as she shut the door behind them both. 

The room was covered in many shades of blue, from the silks that hung from the walls, to the bedsheets, and even the furniture too. It was soft and atmospheric, much like the props used during her angel acts. Lusine floated about the space as she found two glasses in which she could pour champagne from the bottle she’d pilfered on their way to her room above the club. 

The bubbly was poured and she turned to look at the boy from over her shoulder, wondering if he was nervous being in such closed quarters with a courtesan. Most young men were, unless they grew up around such types of things. 

“It’s much quieter up here, don’t you think?” 

It was kind of him to extend the invitation, a visit to the much-whispered-about Blue Lotus, but even kinder of him to join her for a moment of conversation upon seeing she had actually made good on her promise to visit. 

Varnished fingernails of peacock green tapped a rhythm against the side of her teacup as she looked upon her company’s features, which were most interesting. Lusine had always prided herself on her ability to read others in an accurate manner, but with Daniel there were complications to her methods, of which she wondered had anything to do with the apparent fractures of his nose. How many times had it been broken in the past? Beyond her own experience of seeing a man have his nose broken in the brothel she called home as a young woman, she could not imagine what the pugilist’s nose had been through. 

Still, like some Greek comedy, every fist thrown made him more handsome, it seemed. And even more like a Greek comedy, those punches had given him quite Roman features, the likes of which may have been seen on an old coin kept beneath glass in a museum. 

She was staring again. Catching herself, her eyes fell to the oolong in her cup. 

“The boxing makes sense,” she started, and placed the cup down to rest her chin in her hand. “But how does a man find himself the proprietor of an Oriental tea house in Paris? And an American man, no less...” 

It was quite incredible, the type of people she’d have the pleasure of meeting just by being someone’s guest.  Not to mention the doors that would open to her, when they would not have done so otherwise. As the Étoile Volante of Cirque Cassuli, she was often plucked from the circus grounds to accompany powerful men to events who wanted to win social points by bringing along someone interesting. As the Ange, things were no different, except that there was sometimes extra expectations towards the end of the night.

Her gift was that once she was through the door she would make friends in many places, so she would not need the arm of a gentleman to be her key. This was how she found herself blissfully alone at the Palais Garnier, a behemoth of luxury she and other children of the street would break into long ago. Although... Luxury was absent that evening as she watched a group of young bohemians—no doubt art students, protestors, or god forbid both—take up space in the lobby as they performed some type of interpretive performance during intermission. 

Though she would have been the first to admit that she didn’t quite understand what they were going for, the spectacle amused her nonetheless. The upper-crust types that filled the room weren’t as pleased to see them there. 

Lusine sidled next to a gentleman situated near a banister who definitely seemed perturbed by the scene if his shoulders, which almost met with his ears, had anything to say about it. 

“There is something to be said about the freedoms that only youth can provide,” she said to her new companion, “though I’m uncertain what that is.”

“First she fainted. Perhaps forced to listen to an artists commentary on the true depths of the human soul. And how blue is truly the most tragic color,” Jack said, a wry smile prickling across his lips. It was rare to meet a someone who shared his brand of macabre humor. His glass of wine was still half full as he pointed it towards the painting, tilting it at a navy formation of what might be rocks just to the side of the subjects head. “Then she fell into the ocean, hit her head and drowned.”

He pulled the glass back to himself, taking a short drink. For the first time in weeks, Jack’s aim was not to obliterate himself before noon. “I’ve heard that boredom can be quite fatal. Even when you’re not precariously perched on a cliff and in the clutches of a painter who thinks himself a philosopher.”

“If blue is the most tragic of colors, then I need to rethink my entire routine,” the Venus uttered.

Lusine often feared about the direction of art in Paris, as the city often had a habit of changing overnight. Was was in on Tuesday would be old hat by Wednesday morning. Personally, she loved the classics. There were times when she would visit the museums just to stand close enough to those large-canvased masterpieces of ethereal imagery just to lose herself in their beauty. Sometimes just looking at them was enough to make her cry. 

Standing there in the Bateau, looking at these images, she wanted to cry. Though it was not for the beauty. 

“Funny you should say that, because I feel on the verge of death right now—not because of you, of course,” she felt the need to quickly add, with a little wave of a hand gesture for emphasis. The last thing she wanted was to insult the man.