I was despatched to bring him home – a spiritless task rankling even more than the unconvincingly louche nonchalance of his newly-acquired Gallic associates.
Did they try harder to detain him, I wondered. Or were some seeking to extend their embrace to ensnare me also?
Whatever, the prospect of returning home, either with or without him, soon held significantly less appeal until ultimately I found myself coercing the prodigal into delaying both his, and consequently my departure from Paris.
And as autumn revealed the stark branches of the trees bordering the Champs-Elysées, so it would uncover each of our motives.
Only Words – retread from June, 2015
Your words are scattered like ice-shards on our bed.
People change… no-one’s fault…
They fall to the floor as I smooth the sheets, and I nudge the fragments beneath the bed.
I pluck my words from the pillow slipping them into my apron pocket.
Please don’t do this… please…
In the kitchen I shake your words from the tablecloth, as the dog snuffles amongst them, foraging for truths and toast-crumbs.
No-one else… well, no-one special anyway…
And on the dusty garage floor, I kneel to gather the words frozen to your lips.
Please don’t do this… please …
They’ll stay with me, forever maybe.
There will be little ‘visit-value’ for Friday Fictioneers in my first attempt above, if they’re not familiar with ‘The Ambassadors’ by Henry James (which I believe is the book in the prompt this week), so I’ve included the retread I was intending to submit when the muse couldn’t easily be roused from its reverie. Thanks again to Rochelle for leading our happy band of writers.