Nobody's Interesting Life

           A DAY BEFORE MY FLIGHT, I took a taxi to the post office with a couple of boxes to ship to Calvin’s place in Hong Kong. One box contained a multitude of books I felt I had to keep and the other a few pots and pans, some utensils, some clothes, and various other household items I didn’t wish to pack into a suitcase. I had given away or tossed approximately three-quarters of my possessions. A few I was still thinking about, but mostly I felt liberated. Anything I needed could be purchased where I was going anyway.             The price of shipping turned out to be fairly expensive. I decided to lighten the weight by pulling out some books. The cashier gave me a plastic bag. I thanked her in French. I was nearly out the door when I remembered I had something else to mail. I returned to the cashier and handed her the envelope with my letter to Madeleine inside. “C’es...

Brigitte left for Hong Kong. I watched her walk through security at the airport and then waited until her plane took off to be sure I didn't squander any opportunity to be with her for even a minute longer. I had already begun to arrange things so I could join her in a little more than eight weeks. A pair of my closest friends lived in the city. I knew I could rely on them for a place to stay until I got myself situated. Calvin Ng was a half-French, half-Chinese photographer with multiple tattoos including the symbol for infinity behind his left ear, and a full sleeve on his left arm with an hour glass connected at the elbow as the centrepiece. The sand was almost completely in the forearm section which, ever since he had it done, served as the topic for countless philosophical and psychoanalytical debates both real and as conversation starters with women. His hair changed colors more often than the seasons and the piercings on his body seemed to multiply every time I came for...

My eyes opened at 7:00 AM the next morning. I dialed the front desk and requested a late checkout. A woman asked me to hold. I heard her typing as I waited. She spoke again and told me I could checkout at 1:00 PM. I hung up the phone and checked on Brigitte. She was sleeping guiltlessly. I closed my eyes and promptly returned to the land of dreams. At ten o'clock I woke again and this time felt awake. I hopped out of bed and drew the curtains to let sunlight flood the room. Brigitte stirred and opened her eyes. She asked me what time it was. I told her. "Put some clothes on," she chided me. "I'm going to shower first," I responded. She slinked out of bed and joined me at the entrance to the balcony. She was most beautiful to me like this. No makeup, no inhibition. Her skin taught around her chest and buttocks and a manicured line of pubic hair between her legs. But something nagged at me from the night before. Knowledge. Gained knowledge and lack of k...

"IS IT TOO MUCH?" BRIGITTE ASKED. She modelled a pink strapless dress cut high above the knee. "I don't think so," I told her. "What are you going to buy?" "Something so I don't look like a bum next to you." "It's too much." "No. You have to buy it." "Really?" "Now that I've seen you in it, absolutely." "I'll have to get shoes too." "Shit, me too." I tried to pay for the dress, but Brigitte wasn't having it. I'd already snuck onto Expedia and booked a room at the Hotel Victoria, so I decided to surrender this battle. We shopped for another hour. I bought a light blue Yves Saint Laurent button up shirt, slim Ted Baker Khaki pants, and blue espadrilles. Brigitte bought a pair of white high heel sandals to go with her dress, the straps wrapping around her calves like a roman soldier. We walked about town for a little while, admiring the Lambor...

We woke early in the morning, showered and dressed, and left our little oasis within forty-five minutes. We stopped for a café crème and pain au chocolat , and strolled through the park Cimiez to the Musée Matisse . Brigitte could not contain her excitement. There was a paragraph in my moleskin that mentioned Matisse that I had copied from Tropic of Cancer. I read Miller's words to Brigitte as we entered the gallery. "Beautiful," said Brigitte. "Why is that in there?" "Admiration I guess," I told her. "Reminds me of how futile it is though." "Why?" "I'll never be as good," "How do you know?" "I don't have what he had. Most days I can live with it." "When you can't?" "I wallow in self-pity. Let's go inside." Brigitte kissed me. We entered the gallery. We said little to one another for the first thirty minutes or so. Brigitte completely enthralled and...

Arriving in Nice just after 2:00 PM, we took a bus from the train station to our accommodation. The sky was cloudless and the temperature was thirty-three degrees Celsius. I convinced Brigitte, not without some difficulty, to hold off on Matisse until the following day so we could take advantage of what was left of the afternoon sun. The beach mats I bought during a previous visit were still rolled up in the closet and, as always, the Majestic apartment was stocked with plenty of beach towels. I took the large Hawaii towel for myself and the Hello Kitty towel for Brigitte. "We should shower first," Brigitte suggested. "I'm not going to," I replied. "Your disgusting," she joked. But she didn't shower either. The ocean washes everything. We walked toward the Promenade des Anglais , stopping at the Fontaine des Trois Graces and a convenience store along the way. We purchased some chilled white wine, cheese, a few fruits, bottled water, and ...

Before she left France, Brigitte wanted to see Nice and the French Riviera. She asked me if I had been. "I have," I told her. "But wouldn't mind going again." With that, we went about arranging a trip south. A friend of mine in Paris owned a frequently vacant apartment in the Majestic building on Boulevard de Cimiez. With the Matisse museum just up the hill, and Brigitte's unbridled obsession with the artist, the accommodation was close to perfect. The only impediment to perfection was this friend's acquaintance was made courtesy of Madeleine. We took advantage of her real estate at least three or four times together. I wasn't sure if she knew Madeleine and I had separated.  I wasn't sure if I alone was held in high enough esteem to be granted the key to her empty flat. I was sure, however, regardless of what she knew and didn't know, regardless of what level of trust and admiration she held in her heart for my existence, if I divulged that...