They called her “Anise”, those dissolute souls, born of the Green Fairy to inspire their art.
She posed exotic and nude for Paul, who never touched her though he desperately longed to possess her.
She wore white lace and a blue bonnet for Georges, who soiled her dress with a savage lust that made her laugh when he was done.
She was the muse for Jean-Claude’s verse, shrouded in metaphors of amber dawn and purple twilight, and the dark wanton harmony for Henri’s torrid melody.
She sipped absinthe as she shed her clothes; she fed their fancies and played to their illusions. She sold their dreams for a song, smoking slim cigarettes late into the night, over languid claret and honeyed pastries.
They adored her to immortality, those dissolute souls.
François worshipped her in silence, the sweet shy waiter who never said a word but professed his love nightly with the perfect café au lait.
copyright 2013 Ruth R. Greig
"Whew!"
ReplyDeleteIs that a "oui" ou "non"? :)
DeleteMost >definitely< a "oui". If you can write stuff like that, how the heck are you not famous???
ReplyDeleteI often ask myself the same thing, Brother!
Delete*fans self*
My fans claim that I'm too good a writer to be famous, so I'll go with that :)
DeleteFamous writers SHOULD be so good. :)
Delete