The Constorium of Greater Minds

Her eyes are hard, fixed on the scene in the park below.
“It isn’t fair to you,” he says.
Below a grandmother sits on an ornate wrought iron bench reading to her two young grandchildren who are perched on either side of her eagerly peering at the story’s illustrations. Beyond them down the path two youths laugh and jostle one another while their girl friends shout at them in exasperation from further down the path.
“To make such a drastic change in one’s life on the basis of a single individual simply isn’t sensible. You see that don’t you? Who knows what may happen in the months and years to come.”
He places his hand on her shoulder. His fingertips burn with a cruel flame on her naked skin but she does not make a move to remove them. Nothing can break her concentration on the park below. The park they have lived above for the past two years. The park they would sunbath in during the summer, build snowmen during the winter. The park they would stroll through in the evening after dinner. She would often come to the balcony late at night when she could not sleep to gaze upon the soft glow cast from the art deco street lamps and listen to the sounds a car would make when driving slowly down the cobblestones of rue lacroix. This afternoon sitting on the balcony bathed in the warm August sun she felt she had never set eyes on her park before.
“Darling, we have to be smart about this, don’t you see. You understand,” he insists. “We are both young and shouldn’t be burdened by emotion in a time of such transition. Besides, this isn’t permanent. If we both feel strongly that we’ve made a mistake in two years we can reevaluate and in between there will be opportunities to be together. Darling, you haven’t said a word, what do you think?”
“You’re right,” she says softly. “You’re right.”
“See that’s being sensible, darling.”
He pushes his back from the balcony where he has been leaning and takes a seat beside her at the marble breakfast table. With one hand on her back he kisses her shoulder. Her skin is warm in the sunlight.
“This isn’t easy for me,” he whispers. “I want you to know that.”
“You think it’s easy for me,” she questions in a tone he cannot mistake for wounded sarcasm.
He says nothing but kisses her again on her shoulder and then on her cheek then stands up.
“I’ll go to the store for dinner. A baguette, laughing cow, tomato soup and a bottle of chateau pradeaux just like the night we moved in.”
He was looking for a reaction but got none and for the first time since their discussion began he had the faintest notion that perhaps he was making a mistake but three months of telling himself he was doing the right thing quickly ridded his mind of any such ideas.
Left alone on the balcony for the first time that day she let herself cry and as his footsteps grew fainter once he turned the corner of rue montagne she laid her head against the smooth balcony and watched as her teardrops collected on the white marble at her feet. The apartment was silent behind her, the park was silent below and she wept.

this one goes out to my man adam who keeps putting me on the classic film game. an interview with godard, perhaps one of the most important film makers of all time. the only film i’ve seen of his is ‘une femme est une femme (a woman is a woman)’ and it was pretty damn good. get at that culture
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