Free Parisian Promises by Cecilia Velástegui Page A

IGHT
Breaking Monica
    T he opulence of Jean-Michel’s apartment overwhelmed Monica’s far more modest sensibilities. In total contrast to the weathered reins, dented helmets, and nearly forgotten dreams that hung together on rusty nails in the ranch house back in California, Jean-Michel’s lair overflowed with a sophisticated, bohemian mélange of prized paintings and sculptures, antique furniture, and boiserie walls lined with ancient tomes. As she tiptoed across the Persian rugs, Monica resembled a new hatchling that had fled from a meager three-twig nest into the engulfing luxury of a beckoning roost.
    When she first arrived at this grand high-ceilinged apartment, shivering in her new diaphanous blue dress, Monica had peeked from the library to the dining room with awe, and lingered open-jawed at the virtual aviary inhabiting Jean-Michel’s bedroom. Monica had read about collectors who cherished their cabinets de curiosités , but Jean-Michel’s room was a taxidermist’s dream. She inched her way in, agog at the incredible display of stuffed miniature birds, fossils and shells, and flinched when she glimpsed, hanging from the corniced ceiling, a falcon with its wings extended menacingly. It was all very strange but quite spectacular. Instead of feeling repulsion toward a colony of shiny bats hanging upside down above Jean-Michel’s bed, forming a canopy of eerie mystery, Monica found herself yearning to lie beneath their fangled grimaces and to absorb their dark cloud of silent threats. When she looked up at the bats, her body tingled with fear and excitement.
    Monica leaned her aquiline nose up to the oversized hooked bill of an Ecuadorian toucan sitting near the tall window. She ran her index finger along its stiff, glistening feathers of bright yellow and scarlet––and wondered where these creatures came from and why they inhabited Jean-Michel’s bedroom. She felt a particular kinship with this glorious creature, as if they’d both blown in from afar on the same turbulent air current, finding themselves strangely at home in this opulent cage on the banks of the Seine.
    Jean-Michel leaned on the bedroom door, watching Monica intently. He set down the tray of snacks on the nightstand, and walked over to her.
    â€œThat loyal lady is named Isabel,” he said, “and she’s my favorite among the birds that share my home.”
    He swooped-up Monica off her feet and laid her down gently on the eiderdown comforter. Monica reached up to him, her arms wide open, and pulled Jean-Michel towards her. She held her breath as Jean-Michel undressed her and pressed himself against her with a firmness and control that reminded her of the way she trained Rocky. During their long trail rides into the Santa Rosa Plateau, Rocky would follow the directions given with just the slightest pressure of her legs. Tonight Jean-Michel dominated her with a similar tender determination, and it made Monica feel that here, in this baroque, exotic apartment, overlooking the comings and goings of the Seine, she had finally landed in her own natural habitat. She let herself go, panting and almost braying with abandon at the satisfaction Jean-Michel gave her.
    Afterwards, Jean-Michel poured her a glass of still-cold champagne.
    â€œWhy did you name her Isabel?” Monica asked him, propping herself up on one elbow and gazing over at the stuffed toucan.
    â€œShe’s named after Isabel Casamayor de Godin, the heroine of the most romantic story you will ever hear. Shall I tell you?”
    â€œOf course! I love romantic stories.”
    Jean-Michel kissed the length of her leg and bit her inner thigh––just a little bite, but enough to cause pain. He would have loved to draw blood to get her attention––and to jump-start her on her mission––but he couldn’t risk failing yet another assignment, particularly after the fiasco with Bertrand. The giant fool had not