1.
Blood Only Shines in the Moment

“The knife nearly needs not make contact. Flesh giving way with the lightest touch. Blood drips, streaking against white porcelain; pooled in black grease. I drink it up! The bitter aftertaste startles at first then excites me! Like used motor oil marking my arrival home after a long journey away. Simply to die for. Bon Apetit! Now for the milkshake—”

Le Chef, one Rosemund Montagne, hit STOP on the tape recorder letting only the littlest puff of relief slip from lips unpursing a tight expression. The veins on his tree-trunk forearms, weeding through rose tattoos like vines, went slack then vanished as he laid seized property onto the tablecloth with a delicateness men only mustered after embarrassment.

“Excuse my ill manners, Mademoiselle,” Rosemund apologized, “Whispers by lone guests over top of their lunches naturally draws my suspicion.”

“Don’t receive too many compliments on your Black Pudding Lamprey, I take it?” Mademoiselle teased.

“Critics and animal-rights activists regularly disguise themselves as tourists in order to assail me and my restaurant with slanders.”

“An artist’s conundrum, for sure.”

Mademoiselle nonchalantly reached over the ceramic crime scene platter in front of her, flayed eel outlined in viscera and vegetable chunks, to place the tape recorder back into her purse—next to the lipstick, designer shades, and Astra A-100 pistol.

“Not really,” Rosemund insisted, “I don’t pander to the tastes of peasants. Or witless effetes who fawn over beautiful results but never anything resembling the blood and guts given in their creation.”

“I’m hopefully not spokesperson for the witless, but peasants are with whom hunger lies, no?”

Rosemund unrolled his sleeves, thinking. Thinking that the neat fashion in which he straightened his cuffs evened out his messy habit of wiping his hands all over his white chef’s jacket. He shifted gears, changing the topic and arriving straight to the point.

“Forgive me one more transgression,” Rosemund prodded, “but may I ask what brings a lady such as yourself to Faux Beaucoup this afternoon? Besides my elitist cuisine, I mean.”

A snorted laugh was stifled by cotton gloves escaping Mademoiselle’s lips in a charming and refined “o-hohoho” titter.

“I didn’t intend to wound you, my little cabbage,” Mademoiselle managed with only a tinge of condescension, “I’m simply waiting on an old… friend.”

Her hesitation cascaded through the other restaurant patrons as stilted stillness and awkward silence only broken by black servers flitting from table to table. The word “friend” hanging in the air like a joke made in poor taste. Or blasphemy spoken on holy ground. Slavish to Time as his profession required, eyes always darting between wall clock and kitchen without intent—Rosemund ought to have noticed the red second hand leap from 6 to 39 without hitting a single mark in between. 33 seconds gone in a flash. He was Enthralled. Along with every other fair-skinned person in this dining area. Serving as the unwitting lens through which CHARLOTTE caught glimpse of its prey. When his senses were returned to his mind, they were finishing their round trip caressing every bend and curve visible on the black woman seated before him. Rosemund’s Strong Sense of Smell emerged from an artificial meadow of L’air du Temps spritzed on her neck the day before. Keen Sight clocked and unhid the discoloration around her right eye (her brand of foundation lost specificity the darker one’s skin tone) before roaming downward from cherry-red lips toward turtlenecked bosom. Good Taste… dictates I don’t delve into this sensuous dissection further.

He felt shame not from the drooling openness of his appetites worn on his sleeves or even this uncharacteristic absent-mindedness. He stood flustered wondering how he’d seen mud in eyes just a few moments ago that now so clearly reflected an ocean’s blue.

Rosemund rubbed the salt-and-paprika in his beard with a slight nod of his head, as if being fed a line through an earpiece.

“Have you ever considered modeling?”

“Oh? Is that what I was doing behind that blank expression of yours just now? Modeling?”

“You were… well-dressed.”

“I’m sure I was. Tastefully arranged as a Christmas Goose.”

“Don’t be ridiculous: I’d never baste one of my geese in butter and rosemary.”

With a light grin, Mademoiselle suggested, “How about I take your picture instead?”

Before Rosemund could shield his face from the flash, Mademoiselle was pulling the photograph from the instant camera’s lip and wiggling it in the air until Rosemund’s objection to the act manifested in a still image. Rosemund shrugged and let it go.

“The organization I cater for has been searching in vain for a bright new smile to plaster over their various wares and services. Consider what I’ve asked.”

Curiosity sated just enough not to pick at the bones of this interaction, Rosemund quickly barreled through the cramped dining area and disappeared through double doors back into his kitchen. Stale sweat ran cold from hot tempers wafted into the dining room briefly interrupting the chemical perfumes which kept the old wood decor, old tourists, and old food politely considered “Aged”.

Rosemund and Mademoiselle returned to their routines thinking to themselves: Target confirmed.

Mademoiselle sucked on the straw like a candy cane nursing her bushwacker into an emptied glass of powdered senescence while admiring all the cream-coloured faces surrounding her. Allowing room and drink to fill her with their welcome warmth, any chilliness wisely attributed to the ice cream housing rum. Nearby conversations showered her with overcast “black” “black” “black” obviously complimenting the rich blackness of her hair. The nearness of the tables, and her position smack dab in their center, meant she felt like the guest-of-honor at every single one. A woman could only blush so many times, demure and coquettishly mute, in response to such shameless admiration. And, oh, the music! How the violin sang! She recognized but couldn’t quite place this classical standard; it transported Mademoiselle back

Madam Jean’s dance collective proved overly-focused on contemporary trends much to Mademoiselle’s distaste. Therefore, Mademoiselle took it upon herself to become their specialist in ballet.
Pirouette.
Kick.
Naturally, the other dancers envy her grace and poise.
Men covet it. From the time she’s an adolescent, men recognize how such a talent barely bud begs for their immediate and intimate cultivation.
Pirouette.
Kick.
Sniffing after their concrete rose ready to be
plucked from obscurity.
This one a photographer.
That one wants her to star in movies!
Pirouette.
Kick.
“Okay. Just one drink. To stave off the jitters.”
He promises they’ll make “sweet music” together even though the commercial
landscape at the time only seems to reward crude and unsavory acts.
Pirouette.
Kick.
Pawing her way into the “mercury Coop Devil”, Mademoiselle wonders
where the record producer could possibly hide a studio inside his 1 bedroom apartment.
Pirouette.
Kick.
A hopeless, hapless dancer with wide-set eyes
and a head like a hammer
lunges for Mademoiselle in the dressing room, claws forward, hoping to pry
Mademoiselle’s eyes apart to match her own. Praying aloud:
“Lord, let me nail this bitch!”
Divine intervention took place a decade and some change prior
when God decided to make Mademoiselle Mademoiselle
and the other girl the other girl. Mademoiselle’s retort is plain and simple:
Pirouette.
Kick.
Security drags her out from the passenger seat of his Coupe DeVille. The stage demands
her at once. The show must go on.
The Company doesn’t hear excuses.
Pirouette.
Kick.
Mr. Record Producer slams on the gas, swerving in reverse, until the back door is shorn clean off by the car parked behind his.
Pirouette.
Kick.
“Aw, Baby! Stop spinning like a damn record and let me see something! Bad enough this joint’s lit like a wet cigar!”
Pirouette.
Kick.
Train harder. Don’t slow down. Quit.
Pirouette.
Kick.
Mirror and blood-stained carpet are added to Mademoiselle’s monthly expenses. Debt
is crushing her. She’ll never get away clean.
Mademoiselle must run.
Pirouette.
Kick.
Faster than cowardice. But how can she when she’s shrouded herself
in armor? Body numb. Mind blank. Onlookers mistake the awkward clang of artifice
for her heartbeat.
Pirouette.
Kick.
Blood only shines in the moment.
Leave it to academics
to poke
rust and figure out it’s red.
Pirouette.
Stumble.
Keep heart bare.
No matter the risk.
Pirouette.
Take a bow.

Mademoiselle stops. The world keeps on spinning. No one cares. Legs jelly
from dizziness and exhaustion wobble and spill off the stage. The African Man
whose eyes squint in the dark-too-bright looks down on the ballerina
in this music box shattered at his feet. Gnashing his teeth on the bone of an oxtail. From the plate on his lap hemorrhaging the juice of collard greens he garnished it with.

“Stand tall, kipusa.” He says smearing grease and saliva on thick lips with his tongue, “It gets easier.”

“Huh?” Mademoiselle whimpers disoriented.

“The world revolving around you.”

A waiter, shifting in his white coat as uncomfortably as Houdini escaping a straitjacket, clears his throat interrupting Mamzelle stewing over her ex-partner. A meringue pie, Rosemund’s business card, and the bill:
“Compliments of Le Chef.”

Had she not been seated perfectly parallel behind a gentleman (whose prominent forehead suggested an intellectual or even a Duke’s pedigree) and the corner reserved for piano and violin behind him, Mademoiselle’s “Bravo! Chapeau!” wouldn’t have fallen on deaf ears nor her bonnet doffed in reverence on blind eyes as the virtuoso violinist made their swift exit.

Mademoiselle wrote in pretty cursive on the back of Rosemund’s business card sticking out from the pie’s cream.

When Mister, having arrived several minutes too late by way of traffic-addicted yellow taxi cab, walks to the empty table and picks the card out of the pie with a bite taken out he can’t help but laugh reading her note:

Mister: When we do next meet,
we’ll share more than a treat.
P.S. Garçon, Monsieur will pay.
~Mademoiselle

“Naturally,” he says to the waiter while opening his wallet.