Speaker of Shades

Boredom and Violent Explosions

"Tell me about that time you had your bag stolen in Paris, Grand-Mere." Anais asked, laying across the row of seats. Her collared shirt rubbed against her neck as she shifted to look at her friend. The old woman smiled, her eyes sparkling as she recalled The City of Lights, glowing with life, love and color. "Haven't I told you this story before?" Grand-Mere asked, raising an eyebrow.

Anais offered a grin, her cheek dimpling, "That doesn't mean I would mind hearing it again." The old woman leaned back in the airport chair, her aura shimmering as she put her feet up. "It was the summer of 1930, and I was about your age, maybe fifteen or sixteen. My mother decided it would be good for me to leave New York for a while, and see where my family was from. She sent me to Paris to live with my aunt for the summer." Grand-mere's apparition shifted, her hair assembling itself into a a sleek bob, her cheeks and bosom becoming fuller. Her usual turtlenecked sweater and long skirt transformed into a mid-calf dress with short puffed up sleeves and a collar. Anais raised an eyebrow at the attire, and Grand-Mere lightly jabbed her with her finger. "Oh, shush. It was the style when I was young. Now where was I? You darned girl made me lose my place again..."

"You were sent to live in Paris with your aunt," Anais suggested eagerly, stretching her arms above her head and pushing up into a sitting position.

"Ah right, that was it. Well, as soon as I got to their home, my aunt and uncle put me to work at their cafe. I worked hard during the day, bussing tables and taking orders, but during the night... oh, the nights were my favorite time. I would wander around the streets of Paris for hours, chasing good company and good food. The summer breeze would carry the scent of fresh baked baguettes and wood smoke. I would dance the night away, until my eyes grew leaden and I could hardly stand on my feet. On one of these nights, I had left the warm light of the bar for a breath of fresh air. I stood leaning against a lamppost, catching my breath. I felt a tug at my shoulder, as the strap of my purse was pulled taut, but it did not snap. Furiously, I rounded on the would-be thief, fully prepared to give him a scolding. I opened my mouth to yell, but stopped. Standing in front of me was a boy, just about my age, maybe a year older. And let me tell you," she said, lowering her voice conspiratorially, as if all of the other ghosts in the Operium were trying to listen in. "He looked absolutely stunning, framed by lamplight next to the river Seine. A cap was pulled low over his eyes, but he raised his gaze to mine. A furious blush had completely overtaken his cheeks, and I could feel my own heating up. He stammered out an apology, saying he thought I was older, and would never have stolen a young girls purse. I glared at him, and he found very sudden interest in his shoes. Finally, I smiled 'I'll forgive you. But only if you share a dance with me.' I said jerking a thumb towards the bar. He smiled, flashing a white toothed grin, 'You're a real floorflusher doll. I'll take you up on that offer'." Grand-Mere sighed, smiling as she sat in her memories.

Anais turned away from the woman, letting her mind wander away from Operium, which had decided today to take the form of an airport. Her mind wandered past the grey smudges of other ghosts, past the hazy black and white hell she lived in, and into a cafe on the Seine River. A little place where a warm breeze blew scents of food and people and life.

The woman tensed, as if she sensed Anais' thoughts, and ruffled her periwinkle hair. "Don't worry kiddo. I'm sure you'll get outta here someday."

"Thanks Grand-Mere," Anais responded despondently. She glanced towards the other woman, and giggles burst from her mouth. "I'm sorry, it's weird calling you grandmother when you look younger than me."

"Oh, put a sock in it, you whippersnapper." Grand-mere snapped out of her fifteen-year old mouth.

Anais turned back to the window, gazing into the thick grey mist covering the tarmac. Her eyes slipped closed, and she drifted into a dreamless sleep.