#r.gabriel

A letter arrived with one of Le Figaro’s messengers to the Journal’s offices around half past noon, and was placed upon the desk of one Gabriel de Silva. There was no return address, nor a recipient name scrawled on the outside, but the envelope itself was heavy enough to suggest there was more than just paper inside. It was the only thing the messenger boy brought that day. 

                                 Some words I meant, but there are more that I regret.                                  The drink is a tricky thing— I think we can both agree                                  on that.  I  considered  pawning  this off, but I feared                                  Sebastián might haunt me  if  I  went  through with it.

                                                                        Will you forgive me?                                                      Bhari

✵ Années Folles AF [6/?] :: Gabriel de Silva

❝ 𝙷𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚍𝚞𝚝𝚢, 𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚞𝚖𝚗𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚗𝚘𝚝, 𝚞𝚗𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎, 𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚏𝚊𝚞𝚕𝚝𝚜 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚗𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚎𝚢𝚎. 𝙿𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚜, 𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚘, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚜𝚖𝚜, 𝙶𝚊𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚕 𝚍𝚎 𝚂𝚒𝚕𝚟𝚊 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚗-𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚢. ❞

Drunken Confession Meme ❈ accepting.

“Why would you say such a thing?” 

“We were already very good friends, and now that... Now that Anthony is dead, and Guillaume has married, I’m certain you are my best friend. Not that-- Not that it would have taken them going away for that to happen, but, you know... We’ve always been close-- I’m not making myself very clear here. Clear, here.” He laughed. “The thought’s never even crossed my mind! I--” 

“Do you regret letting me close? Is this your way of telling me that, Gabriel?” The question sounded as if he was joking, but there was a very real fear taking root in his brain. 

❈ Drabble Meme [always open]

@gabrieldesilva

“How do you do what you do, Gabriel?” The reporter asked from beside him at the bar. 

Lips pulled away from a glass before the critic responded. Above them two brows dipped low in uncertainty. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he began, propping his elbows up on the bar, “that I would be too nervous to offend someone by publishing my opinions like you do. You know the editor actually asked me to be more biased, can you believe that? I just– How?” 

“It’s easy.” 

“For you.”

“What do you want me to say?” 

Bhari let out a laugh. “I don’t know.” He took a sip of his drink while trying to find the words. 

“It’s just honesty,” Gabriel said. “I write what everyone else is thinking. You could do it too if you were more confident.” He avoided Bhari’s pointed look aimed at him by watching the girls on stage. “Do you remember that awful restaurant we went to last Thursday? What did you think of the food?” 

“It was awful,” Bhari replied. 

“And?” 

“Terrible?”

Gabriel laughed. “Beyond that, Bhari. Tell me what you really thought of it.” 

Bhari sat for a moment in heavy contemplation before speaking. “It was like the chef lost his sight and… had to have the recipe read to him by the sous chef.” Gabriel’s attention shifted away from the women to look at his company with great interest. The smile on his face urged Bhari to continue. “But rather than a book of recipes, the sous was given a book of experimental food-related Gertrude Stein poems.”

Bhari felt a bit rude saying such things, but the way they seemed to amuse Gabriel delighted him.

“And also they had salt shakers instead of hands.” 

SOFT INTIMACY MEME

@gabrieldesilva

🍙 - Bring my muse something to eat

“Here.”

The offering—something or other wrapped in waxed paper and tied with red and white twine—was dropped on Gabriel’s work desk. They were the only two left on the office’s floor, typing away for their fourteenth hour straight, trying to meet the tight deadline.

     “What is this?” The Critic looked upon it with a similar expression Bhari had seen him sport when looking upon a sickly cat in the streets.

“You’ve been here all day, and if I have to watch you smoke another cigarette and have another drink, without having had something to eat for hours now, I am going to vomit.”

The critic unwrapped the paper slowly, revealing a sandwich of some sort.

    “Again– What is this?”

“Jam-on, I think it was,” Bhari replied. “The butcher said Spaniards liked it, and I told him he’d better be right for the Spaniard I was bringing it to because this one is incredibly picky.”

    “It’s jamón,” Gabriel corrected him. “Thank you, Bhari.”

Portrait of the writer, Gabriel de Silva. Taken by his long-time companion Bhari Sinclair.

c. 1924