Leaving Madeleine - Part 9

Kiyoko lived about five minutes away from Saint-Michel. I arrived at her building ten minutes after eleven and called her from downstairs.

"Moshi, moshi," she answered.

"I'm here," I said.

"Okay! I'm on second floor, 2A."

A loud buzzer went off and I pushed open the massive door.

"I'm in," I told her.

"Yay!" And she hung up.

The interior of the building, like the exterior, was old but well maintained. The staircase was wide and covered with a worn blue carpet. Two thriving jade plants guarded the base of the steps. I heard a door open.

"Here," Kiyoko called down.

I walked up two flights and met her outside her door. She was wearing black short shorts, a white tank top, and a yellow bra. Her legs were very thin, very smooth, and very pale, as if they had never been touched by the sun or the outside world. I wondered if they had. Her hair was tied back in a taut pony tail. She was beautiful effortlessly. She nodded at me and made a self-satisfied humming sound in her mouth.

There was music playing in her apartment. I learned later that it was Namie Amuro.

I followed her inside.

"This is where I live," she said shutting the door and spreading her arms wide.

Furniture was spare. A television across from an off-white hide-a-bed lined one wall, while a small bookshelf overflowing with magazines (mostly fashion) and a couple of Haruki Murakami novels in Japanese, lined the other. There was a desk in the corner with a powerbook and sewing machine atop next to a large open window. And a kitchenette with two elements, a tiny counter and sink.

Clothes on the other hand, were not spare. The room was filled with them. Four racks from which hung dozens of dresses, coats, shirts and pants. High heels, sandals, flats, sneakers, no less than twenty-five pairs of shoes clamored near the entrance door. Fabrics - cut, torn, sewn, shredded - were everywhere.

"You got a lot of clothes," I said plainly.

"Too many, right?"

"Does it make you happy?"

"Sometimes."

I shrugged and smiled. She offered to make some tea, which I accepted.

"Are you hungry?" she asked me.

"I had a chocolate croissant on my way here."

"Yummy!" she exclaimed. As she boiled the water, I perused her Murakami books.

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