February 29th

Old lovers find each other in Paris for a long, overdue tryst...

 

“Eternity was in our lips and eyes,
Bliss in our brows' bent...”

 

-William Shakespeare

Antony and Cleopatra

 

 Sometime ago, on this day, in Paris, it was someone’s birthday.  What a strange day to be born on.  Having such a mercurial birthday; it must change you.

     What a strange day it was.  The weather had been anything unlike anything I’ve ever seen: it was a grey day, to say the least; the clouds seemed to not want any of the light to get through, but no one minded at all.  Here, though, is where any sign of normalcy ended. The rest of the forecast was full of contradictions and double contradictions. It started with the temperature: the winter in France is quite temperate and normal for the forty-ninth lateral.  But, on this day, even though there was a slight chill in the air that made everyone wear a coat, every thermometer in Paris read 19°.  Even still, there was a solid precipitate in the air.  It wasn’t snowing, because snowing would imply that it was falling from the sky.  This, whatever it was, seemed to float in the air, bashfully moving out of the way of people walking by.  If you strained your hearing, passed the frequency of which a normal human can hear, you’d be able to hear the pianissimo “Excusez-Moi”s.

      But the weather is not the point of this story.  The point of the story was standing on a hotel balcony, overlooking a small Parisian square, which contained a handful of children and a few tourists, all of whom were playing (or touring) around a small fountain, marveling at the weather, on this very strange day.  She was a young, petite woman, only looking to be about 23, or 24, and 5’3”; her hair was cropped much shorter than any respectable woman would have it (I believe that it's refered to as a 'pixie cut'), and she had wise, onyx eyes that told you she was older than she looked.  And she was beautiful.  Oh! was she beautiful.  A true Venus incarnate.  Every man that looked upon her, if only for a fraction of a second, froze, because every man that looked upon her all had the same complicated thought.  A fleeting thought, which only a few can describe because it manifests itself only a few times in a lifetime.  But the thought was, if I may try to explain it, that she was so beautiful that she couldn’t have been anything more than a trick of the light, or worse, a figment of their imagination, and if they moved she would disappear.  However, among the most traditional of her fair skinned society, she was not as well received; in fact, she was, more, or less, shunned by them.  This was because of her oddly olive skin, which was due to the fact that she was what her conservative kin referred to as a “half-breed,” or a “b*****d,” and what her mother referred to as an “incorporation.”  But it was very important to know that even though her father was not of her mother’s ilk, or “enasaol,” as he would have been called back home, this did not cause her any physical limitations, as was common to happen with “incorporations,” and she lived a normal life, or at least the way she defines normal.  And it is also very important to know that because she grew up the way she did she had become what her neighbors called a “troublemaker,” and her mother called a “free spirit.”

      As she leaned on the balcony railing, looking at the people wonder at the weather, she couldn’t help but give a small grin.  For this day, February 29^th, was her birthday, and it only came every so often; it had to be special.  She flicked the ash off her cigarette and watched it float down the eight floors to the ground level.  Her face was an amalgam of expression; there was a mix of excitement and longing, with just a dash of impatience, almost like a small child on Christmas Eve that is so excited for the next day that their perception of time seems to slow down, and every second on the clock ticks longer and longer and longer.  And if you looked closely enough (closely enough that you didn’t feel the need to freeze) there would have also been slight hint of worry in her face.  People with her caliber of beauty rarely display signs of worry, but it was there. 

      She was waiting for someone; someone very special.

      When she lifted the cigarette to her mouth, a strong and unexpected wind blew up the hotel’s side and struck her in the face with such force that it startled her quite a bit, knocking her out her position.  Before she leaned back on the railing, she straightened her blue pea-coat, which was buttoned, though she wasn’t cold, and with a flick of her head her tasseled hair returned to where she liked it best, with her bangs sweeping just above her eyes.  Then she looked at the cigarette between her fingers: the wind had blown it out; after rummaging around in her pocket, she pulled out a lighter that looked ancient (ca. 1936), but worked so well that when she clicked it the flame burned a crystal blue.  She looked at the flame for a lengthy second, as if she was remembering something long since passed, and when she moved the flame close enough to the cigarette to light it, once again, a gust of wind shot up into the balcony and blew out the flame.  At this point, the look on her face changed from the previously stated amalgam to one of sheer, unadulterated joy.  The kind of joy that only has the option to be contained, because if set free it could be potentially lethal.  With this contained, yet cosmic, joy, a Cheshire grin came over her face, and, as she bent over onto the balcony once again, she said, to nobody in particular, or so it seemed:

      “You know if you keep doing that, it’s going to stop being cute, and start to become annoying.”

From behind her she heard a voice; a voice she had not heard in a very long time; a voice that made her go weak at the knees.  It was the voice of a man; a young man, who’s wise, amethyst eyes, told you he was much older than he looked; a man that she loved very much.  He said:

“Well, how many times do I have to tell you not to smoke?”

To make sure he was there (because with him you could never tell) she turned her head to the balcony door.  He was there, leaning against the doorframe, handsome as he always had been, and when their eyes met, their hearts skipped a beat.  But of course with their stoic exteriors, you never would have known it. 

“Happy Birthday,” he said.  To which she responded, as she always had:

“And a Happy Birthday to you, as well.”

You see, as strange as it seems, these two happened to be born on the same day.  Everyone was where they came from.

Standing at a dead even 6 foot, he looked to be about 23, or 24, and was dressed in his tattered, black coat and perpetually black wardrobe, which matched his jet black hair, which had always been anachronistically short and spiked, and made him stick out in a crowd, until quite recently, when the style had become fashionable.  In contrast to his clothing, his skin was very fair, as was the norm for his people, and you could see a few storkbites around his neck; it would be obvious to someone who knew anything about dermatology that his ancestors had been accustomed to snow; they could have been from Scandinavia, or maybe Greenland, or possibly, even farther North.  He had a name, just like she had a name; old names (long since forgotten by most people) that actually told you about a person, instead of being a generic label.  Her name was Avá, and his name was Brenn.  They hadn’t seen each other in sixteen years, but had aged only one year since. 

He made his way over to the balcony railing and leaned on it, the same way Avá was, so that they were at eye-level with each other.  He looked over her; she was quite a sight for sore eyes.  They had known each other since they were children, so many years ago, but Brenn’s mother had been the most traditional of Avá’s neighbors, and always told her son to stay away from “that half-breeded, b*****d troublemaker,” though he had never thought of her in that way.  But, being that he was brought up to always obey his parents, did just that.

“You cut your hair,” he said, breaking a silence that didn’t need to be broken, but felt he needed to address the issue.

“Yes. It’s good to see that you have too,” she said in an ironic tone.  Brenn smiled; an intricate part of their relationship had been the art of sarcasm.  They had never cared much for ostentatious gestures of romance, but rather found all their romance in wit.  Avá had the sharper tongue, leaving Brenn to catch up some of the time, but she found something adorable in his mild ineptness. 

Then Avá’s tone changed.  “Do you like it?” she asked quite sheepishly, because even though she would defend to the grave that she didn’t care what he, or anyone for that matter, thought, she was absolutely terrified of Brenn’s true opinion of her.  Posed with this question, Brenn took a long look at Avá’s short, sandy-brown locks, and told her what he really thought.

“I love it,” he said, gently moving the bangs that had fallen over her eyes.  And, with these three, simple words, whatever worried expression had been on her face morphed into a molar revealing smile.

The opinion Brenn’s mother held of Avá had never curbed his own, because he has always taken after his father.  His father, who gained merit for being an expert occultist, was considered an aristocrat in their tight-knit community, but this clashed with his life philosophy that everyone was equal, no matter their ancestry.  Brenn rather liked this philosophy as a child, and eventually adopted it as his own.  In fact, it was this philosophy that allowed these two to fall in love. 

Upon their first real meeting, when they were teenagers, Avá had grown accustomed to being treated two different ways; the first was to be ignored, and/or shunned, because she was a “half-breeded troublemaker,” an epithet she had grown immune to over the years.  The second, which was more common to happen around the boys and young men, was to be unconditionally accepted, and borderline worshipped, because of how stunningly beautiful she was.  However, when she met Brenn, she became utterly fascinated by the fact that he treated her like he treated everyone else, and it was this fascination that caused her attraction.  On a good day, I may be able to stretch and exaggerate the facts to say that it was love at first sight, for her; unfortunately, today has not been a good day, so I am only able to articulate that it was a grade slower than love at first sight, whatever that may be.  Brenn, on the other hand, fell in love much more gradually, over the course of several months.  As Avá found herself engaged by his reserved attitude, and composed demeanor, he found himself incredibly captivated by her impulsiveness, and free-spirited attitude.  Of course, I’d be leading you down the wrong path if I didn’t mention that there was also a strong, physical attraction between them, and they found that they were a perfect fit for one another.

Brenn looked out the flurries that didn’t seem to be falling, but just floating in the air, minding their own business.

“I’m guessing this bit of business is your doing,” he said.

“It reminded me of home,” she said.  “We haven’t been there in so long.  It just seemed right.”  Brenn accentuated his exhale, and whatever had been in the air began to resemble snow a little bit more, as it started to fall. She smiled and said, “Thank you,” quietly, almost whispering it, but she knew he heard it.

He moved his right hand towards her left, and before interlocking, their fingers had an impromptu ballet, as if all ten of them were veteran dancers that were swaying with the same people from their original company.  Then he looked at her and said soothingly:

“Don’t worry. We’ll be home soon.”

“I know,” she said looking back at him. “I know.”

Unlike most modern ones today, where science is first and foremost, in their society, mysticism and science have found a curious balance, in which they do not fight each other in the way of cats and dogs.  Their ancestors realized long ago that the techniques used by an occultist, and the theories used by a scientist, may help in answering some questions, but neither answer the most important question of “Why?” So, long ago, they came to the conclusion that neither was more important than the other, and, ever since, they have coexisted peacefully; never trying to outdo each other; because, when everything is over, it would have been pointless anyway.  This being said, both areas are highly respected fields; and the status of an expert in the field of all things chaos, in society, is equal to the status of an expert in the field of all things order. 

Brenn’s father happened to be a master of chaos, and ever since he was a little boy, because he so admired and respected his father, hoped to follow in his father’s footsteps.  This meant that when he turned eighteen, the point of coming of age into adulthood, he would have to journey to any and all worlds to learn everything about the supernatural.  Unfortunately, by the time he was eighteen, he was very much in love with Avá and did not want to leave her.  Then Avá came up with a solution: she would join him.  And, in spite of Brenn’s objections, she did.  On March 1^st, they set off on their treacherous journey into the world of the occult, but Avá quickly learned that it was a much more dangerous world than she had anticipated.  After about the fifth year of globe-trotting, she had to leave; she realized that she was holding Brenn back, and without her he would have more freedom to do what he needed.  Before she left, though, they made a promise: that neither of them would go home until Brenn was finished, and that they would see each other on their birthday.  The latter part was the only part of their agreement that Avá had any concern about; she knew that she’d be able to not go home, but while Brenn’s personality was calm and erudite, his presence was always erratic.  He was the kind of person that liked to come and go as he pleased; as such, his appearances, or in her case lack thereof, were never predictable.  But much to her relief Brenn always managed to find her, no matter where she was, because the most important thing to know about Brenn, as cliché as it sounds, is that you don’t find him, he finds you.

The knock at the door and the call of a Frenchman broke the silence that they were quite enjoying together.

“Service d’étage,” called the door-to-doorman.

“Entrer,” Avá shouted back.  "It's about time.  I called them hours ago."

“Il est fermé,” he shouted a second after fumbling with the handle.  This hotel, in love with its own nostalgia, had not yet converted their locks to electronic, and the brass doorknobs and the constant jingling of keys gave it a very old-fashioned atmosphere. 

“You locked the door?” Brenn said, as Avá went to unlock the door.

“I forgot.”

The room service waiter wheeled in a small truck that had a silver tray with two glasses and a bottle of chilled champagne on top of it.  After he set down the tray on the table, and the sweating bottle next to it, he looked back to the door for a tip, but when he turned, and saw Avá, he suddenly froze.  Brenn walked into the room, closing the balcony doors behind him, saw the waiter and started to laugh a little:

“You still do that to people, huh?”

“It’s a blessing and a curse,” she responded sarcastically. The waiter was too stunned by Avá’s beauty to realize that they were speaking in a language that he had never heard before, and would probably never hear again.

Avá walked over to the shell shocked man, who had long since gotten lost in her deep, onyx eyes, and had to shake him a bit to wake him out of his state.

“Excusez-moi,” she said, speaking slowly as to ease the man back into reality. “Ce sera tous.  Merci.” And slipped a tip into his shirt pocket.  The man walked out of the room slowly, in a daze, as if he had been hit in the head by something.  When the door closed behind him though, he felt fine, and realized that she couldn’t have been more than a trick of the light: because, he thought, no one could be that beautiful.  But, of course, he was wrong.

Back inside the room, Avá took of her blue pea-coat, though she wasn’t warm, and placed it on the closest chair; Brenn placed his tattered black overcoat, which, after all these years, had never needed mending, and still served its purpose, on the same chair.  With a very loud pop, the champagne was open, and Avá began to pour it into the glasses.  Brenn rolled up the sleeves of his black shirt, revealing the great deal of ritualistically applied ink that he had accumulated over his many years of traveling.  She handed him a glass, and before lightly tapping the glasses together, Brenn recited:

“One hundred and fifty two passed...” and, without missing a beat Avá continued the toast:

“...and still we await the last sunset.”

Then in unison they recited:

“Til mnalgyeeperiss kahra araioféile.”

After drinking their champagne, they looked at each other with same type of longing.  Then for the first time in sixteen years, they embraced each other.  For a little while, they just stood there holding each other; feeling each other, comforting each other, smelling each other, remembering each other.  Then, as if they couldn’t wait any longer, for the first time in sixteen years, they kissed, and thought about nothing else but that moment.

Now, as a gentleman, I cannot regale you with the events, which occurred in this Parisian hotel room, following this very long and passionate kiss.  But I can say that for both of them it was a night of pure bliss.

The next morning, Avá awoke to the sunshine creeping over the buildings and up through the window.  Apparently, the clouds had decided to let up a bit.  She stretched her tired muscles, and groaned as she put her face back into the pillow, annoyed that it was already morning.  There were no more of the mysterious flurries in the air, and all of the thermometers across Paris had returned to normal, after baffling every meteorologist in the city.  

Looking out the window again, Avá sighed, because she knew that she would have to get up, even though, like most people who wake up at dawn, she wanted nothing more than to go back her wonderful dreams.  She rolled over in the bed to wake up Brenn, but to her surprise (though in hindsight, she hadn’t expected anything less), he wasn’t there.  Very quickly, she sat up in the bed, and looked around the room, regaining her acuity almost immediately after the shock.  Everything was exactly the same from the night before: coat on the chair, empty bottle of champagne on the table, pile of clothes on the floor.  Everything, except for him; he was gone.  But that was how Brenn was: his appearances, or in her case lack thereof, were never predictable.  And she couldn’t help but smile, because she wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

She wrapped the bed sheet around her and walked over to her coat.  After rummaging around in the pocket, she pulled out the ancient lighter, which Brenn had given to her as a birthday present in 1936, and a pack of cigarettes.  When she opened the pack’s flap she discovered that there were none left, and realized that Brenn had taken them, in hopes of trying to get her to quit.  She smirked and said “B*****d,” quietly, almost whispering it, but she knew he heard it.

A minute later she was dressed, and on her way downstairs to get another pack.

Author's Note

Too verbose?......I think it's a little too verbose sometimes.

And please excuse the French. I don't speak it at all (obviously), and the French that appears in the story is the best I could do with an Online Translator. If anyone who reads this speaks French, please let me know so I can fix it. Thank you.