Daedalus

PokingmanGo

I think that by now it is obvious that Loire is going above and beyond her call of duty to make this the best experience it can be for me and Lent, and I doubt she will ever stop for as long as we're in Paris. Because of the fact that we're living a personal life here, not one of tourism and exploration, Loire has the opportunity to be around us very often, and she seizes that opportunity whenever she can, including today, as she has invited Lent and me to join her for a picnic outside of the apartment.

She has a perfectly functional wine shop in which to hold a proper lunch, and she also could've used either her apartment or my apartment, so that we would be out of the harsh cold of Paris, but she's accustomed to the weather, having lived here for all of her life, which means that she pays no mind to how I, as an American, feel. She's very perceptive, on the contrary, so she probably is aware but just doesn't give a shit, because I can see that there's something special about picnics, even in the bite of European summers, and I might come to enjoy it. The right people can turn any terrible situation into a pleasant one, and Lent and Loire are those kinds of people (I suppose that's why I spent my morning writing a fucking essay about them out of my mind's questionable inertia). We'll see how it goes.

Loire has prepared a meal for us, like she did last night, except this time it is more casual, with hand-sliced blocks of cheese, rolls of toasted bread, and grapes, a light snack more than a lunch. In the basket of food, I think I spy a dessert of eclairs, too. It's obvious that Loire is avid about showing us just how delicious French bread and cheese is, in case we didn't know already.

She soaks up the sun as fervidly as she can, as it is a rare treat reserved for summer, and it is for this reason that she selected dark colors for today's ensemble. She is donning a blouse in the shade of eggplant that matches fantastically with her dark afro, in addition to black jeans hoisted up by a quite fashionable belt. Her feet are hugged by mundane flats, which she waves around gently in the air with ankles crossed, as her arms lean back to prop her up across the fleece blanket protecting the goods. With eyes blocked against the sun, peace has consumed her entirely.

"Did you finish all that you needed for your painting, mon ange?" Loire inquires, unlatching her lids from overtop her eyes in order to address the young artist beside her.

"Yes, and I cannot thank you enough for your services as my model."

Steadying herself with only one arm, she utilizes her other arm to extend her hand towards her friend, swimming it through his silver locks. "Anything for you, Lent." Loire shuts her eyes again, but soon swats them open again fiercely to ask me a question this time. "By the way, Basil, where were you while Lent and I were painting?"

I don't know why Loire is so interested in this — I'm not a criminal who would be sneaking out to steal something while she participates in wholesome activities with friends — but I answer her question anyway. "I was outside writing."

Loire shifts from her reclining position to instead fold her legs into a crisscrossed formation, hunching forward in fascination for something that would be terribly ponderous to anyone else. "What were you writing?"

This is always the question that always debilitates me, debilitates any writer, in fact. When you spew out metaphysics with an ending of tragedy like I do, also layering melancholy into the main plot, detailing your plot to other people is quite an arduous activity, more so than it should be. It's inordinately difficult to tell people that you write about drugs and art and heretics going off to kill themselves, but that's what my normal writing entails. Thankfully, Loire is not investigating my normal writing, rather a brief description of how I feel about France, so it shouldn't be too strenuous to share.