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      Aramis had been visiting the red light district far too often these days. Although, to be fair, it wasn't for the usual reason.
      He'd been lonely since Schmerz had gone off to serve in the military. He craved the fawning attention of Russian hands and Roman fingers, the twittering of giddy adoration and the endless flow of compliments and sweet nothings that poured from their oft-abused lips. So what if he'd gone to the Ladies of the Night looking for compliments? He enjoyed strolling past the avenue and have them wave at him, blow kisses, wink, even show their wares in a bid for him to buy. He enjoyed the attention. It helped to build up an ego that had been steadily crumbling away. Sometimes he simply walked past the ladies. Other times he'd linger around the back alleys, sharing cigarettes and stories and pearls of wisdom. He adored these women. They held no delusions about who they are and what their lot in life was. They made their living by providing a service, that's how they viewed it. And the only ones who'd be turned down, no matter how much was offered, were the ones who gave them a bad vibe. These women also had incredible instincts.
       But among the painted faces of the young and old, hidden away in the throngs of flashy clothes and painted nails was a character adored by all of these women. A queen among queens, vivacious and free-spirited even in this line of work. A sugary smile and daisy lips, windswept heart and laughing soul. This was Zaire. Zaire, the pretty young thing in women's clothing and a head full of clouds. Zaire had quickly become Aramis' favorite in the masquerade, the bright-eyed boy with the chipper voice and eccentric joy. He'd captivated Aramis with his boundless energy. "Sunshine," Aramis had called him once. And even in the dim-lit alleyways whose only glow was moonlight and the burning embers of discarded cigarettes, Zaire was the shining beacon to which everyone eventually found their way.
      Aramis had come by to visit Zaire the night before, and after the usual genial exchanges, Zaire began his usual adorable babbling.
      "So I was walking through this alleyway, okay? And I saw this giant guy with this big a** umbrella," the young man started, snapping his gum noisily and twirling a lock of his hair around his delicate fingers. "I was like, 'What? How can anybody find an umbrella that freaking big?' I wondered about it all the rest of the day, and realized I really would've liked one of those- I prolly could fly off a building with one. Wouldn't that be amazing? To fly off a building on an umbrella. I'd look retarded, but it would feel magical, don't you think?"
      Aramis laughed at even the notion that Zaire would entertain such a thought, and simply nodded in response. He could hear this guy for hours. For all the work he did, he still had such an innocent charm about him, a trait seriously lacking in the more hardened nighttime crowd. He watched Zaire in the dull glow of the half-moon ahead, admiring the bluish-black sheen of his shoulder-length hair, the notably feminine curve of his hips, the smooth almond shape of his hooded eyes. He'd make a beautiful woman, Aramis thought. But he liked Zaire just fine the way he was. He might have continued his observations if the last bit of Zaire's soliloquy hadn't caught him off guard: Don't you think?
      "Yeah," he answered quickly, flicking a half-finished cigarette offside and into the water by the docks. "I do think, on occasion." It was then that he caught Zaire by the waist and took a well-manicured hand in his and raised it up. No turning tricks tonight, Sunshine. We're gonna dance on the dirt-strewn pavement under the pale half-moon like it's the Palace de Versailles, two blue-blooded nobles engaging in the most delicate of courtships. I'll bow out at the end of this dance and take off the feathered mask, tuck it away in the top dresser drawer until next we meet. But for now, he'll enjoy the time he has here. Every now and then he steps into a puddle, crushing his own reflection underfoot. He's not who he sees in the mirror. He's something much, much more, and it's evident here, now, as he's waltzing with a prostitute by the docks. Funny how it took so much to go wrong to make him feel all right inside.
      Good soldiers don't dance with hookers in the moonlight. And good men don't even find themselves walking past these streets at night. But good souls eventually find each other, no matter where, no matter when. And he sees that good soul in Zaire. In every silken strand of his hair, in the breadth of his smile, in the way he twirls so gracefully over potholes and gravel on delicate high heels. He might come back again tomorrow night. Or he may never come back. But one thing is sure; he's never going to forget Zaire. No way, no how.
      Nobody could forget someone like that.
 Bleeding Apocalypse · Sun Mar 25, 2007 @ 07:19pm · 3 Comments |
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