The Seven Pieces of a Feuilleton

Chapter 2

It had been a little over a decade since she passed her driver's test on the third try and secured her license. During the span of six years, she'd conquered the streets of Europe and gained confidence in her control of the wheel. Yet, as she sat amongst red cursive embedded in white license plates that now seemed foreign, the overcrowded roads of Los Angeles still huffed intimidation.

She regretted the rental car the moment she entered the first lane of traffic out of LAX. With one flick of her finger, she could have her choice of limousine, chauffeur, town car, anything she desired, but a visit such as this required staying under the radar.

What began as a bit part in a historical drama spoken exclusively in French transitioned to a contract role on a popular French soap opera which later found its footing internationally. Her own fame, combined with the global recognition of her fiancé and the national attention on her ex, offered little room for privacy.

Instead, she braved traffic on her own, turning into the driveway curving towards an oceanfront estate which sat about twenty minutes away from where they'd first met.

She turned off the engine, her gaze falling on the golden seven hanging just above the door frame in the precise order that she'd been informed. Seven - they had wed nearly seven years into their acquaintance and now approached their ninth anniversary. With any luck, she would successfully coax an end to the continued farce whilst they were still in the eighth.

In mere moments, the clock on the wall of her apartment would read seven. Her neighbor would shortly drink seven drops of the finest Chardonnay - no more, no less - before blasting his seventh song of the evening. She calculated seven steps stood between her and the door to her past, a past she would much rather leave in the ashes than confront head-on.

But the ring on her polished finger - eighteen karats of expensive white gold glittering in the unsurprisingly present sunshine - reminded her of the vital task at hand, one which could only begin through a knock on an imposing door.

There had never been anything ordinary about either party and it therefore stood to reason that securing closure would not be done in the ordinary way. If, however, she had been less passive in her attempt over the previous three years, she would not be in this predicament now.

She wondered if there might be a certain level of hell for women who kept their fiancés unaware of present husbands, however estranged they may be.

Her fist hovered, intending to reverberate against the cranberry wood. The familiar sound of clinking tools drifted in her direction and, as she recalled he never before permitted assistance with the maintenance of his automobile, brought with it the knowledge of his exact location.

She stepped into the open garage just as he slid out from under the vehicle, staring up at her with a pronouncement of déjà vû that they undoubtedly both felt.

"Thought I'd never see you again." Eyes the color of a chocolate river devoured by a greedy German boy in the world's largest candy factory drank her in. His lips opened, stilled between shock and noticeable lust. He stood quickly, wiping his hands on a towel previously unaffected by grease.

"That would be ideal, but someone still owes me a divorce." Where his voice came out in tender waves, hers held the sharp edge of one who longed to be anywhere than in the location she currently occupied.

His eyes darkened, warm cocoa metamorphosing to burnt coffee grounds resting at the bottom of a pot. He uttered curse words in between an adamant rejection, followed by a string of other curses which saw him turn on his heel and head into the house.

She matched his rhythm, entering the place they once considered purchasing together.

"Look, you made your choice six years ago and it wasn't this marriage. So put us both out of our misery and let me end this."