Free Parisian Promises by Cecilia Velástegui Page B

only blundered and set off an explosion; he’d left behind his leg as evidence. Jean-Michel took a swig of champagne, trying to push that ghastly image out of his head. He set down his glass and pulled several plump pillows towards Monica, so she could make herself comfortable.
    â€œBefore I tell you the tale,” he asked her, “tell me something. What is it about love stories that you love so much?”
    Monica gave him a shy smile, stretching her naked body languorously towards the pillows and closing her eyes.
    â€œDon’t move a centimeter,” said Jean-Michel, jumping off the bed. “I must draw you in that pose!”
    On his way to the door, he grabbed her blue dress and shoes from the floor, bundling them out of the room unobserved.
    â€œWhy didn’t you didn’t tell me that you’re an artist as well?” Monica called. In the next room she could hear drawers being opened and shut. “Well, I mean, I’m trying to be an artist, I guess.”
    Jean-Michel returned, sketch pad in hand, and stood over the bed. For a few minutes he sketched Monica feverishly, saying nothing, and then he tore the page out.
    â€œNo, I’m not doing you justice,” he said, crumpling the paper and flinging it to the floor. He started sketching on a new page. “Only Manet could have painted you and your remarkable beauty. Do you know that you remind me of his Olympia?”
    â€œI think we saw that painting at the Jeu de Paume. You mean the one of a naked woman resting on pillows, with a black cat at the end of the bed?” Monica readjusted herself in the same position as Manet’s Olympia in repose. “Wasn’t she a prostitute? Isn’t that what the black cat represents?”
    â€œNo, no. Manet’s composition was inspired by a reclining nude by Titian.” Jean-Michel bent over to kiss Monica. “What I’m saying is that you are a classic beauty. And here is my tribute.”
    He produced a small pale-green Ladurée box and handed it to her.
    Monica pulled the delicate green ribbon from the box, and smiled with delight at its contents: delicate, pastel-colored macarons .
    â€œYou asked me what I like about love stories,” she said, nibbling on one of the sweet and airy macarons . “Well, I suppose that all love stories are about a profound passion, right?”
    Jean-Michel nodded, frowning down at his sketch.
    â€œAnd many of them are about forbidden love, like in Romeo and Juliet , where both families and society were against them.” Monica paused while Jean-Michel licked the colorful crumbs that had dropped onto her breasts. “And lots of times the ending is really tragic, like in Tristan and Isolde or Anna Karenina . I really admire Anna’s love for Count Vronsky. But can you believe that she killed herself over that guy? He was such a cad.”
    She licked her lips, and Jean-Michel handed her another macaron in order to stifle any more rambling about her favorite love stories. He wanted Monica to realize that in a heroic love story, the people who fall in love fall hard. Sometimes they even mix up their love with a bit of hate, and above all they face immense conflict. It was this type of torrid love affair that Jean-Michel wanted to manufacture in a hurry––one that would make Monica fall off a cliff for him––but in her ignorance, she was resisting him, gushing on and displaying her girlish, superficial understanding.
    â€œMy favorite stories are the ones about desperate love,” she told him, “where the lovers overcome all the odds, like in Jane Eyre . You know how she––”
    Jean-Michel threw his pad to the floor and kissed her fiercely, just to shut her up. Right now he wanted a break from Monica’s infantile rendition of great love stories, but he had to rest assured that he understood her true character, especially her weaknesses, before he would allow her to become his