Daedalus

who the fuck is jackson pollock

To an outside, Loire Babinot would seem like the kind of woman to be hunted by archaeologists for years, an enigma protected by another code layered on top, a mystery that not even the finest detectives could solve, and considering I know nothing of forensics beyond what human emotions deposit in their aftermath, Loire's actions have tossed me farther from the truth than I would've ever wanted to go.

Loire and I are friends, and I thought that was our permanent title. She is aware that I am "in love" with Lent, and yet she kissed me as if it were the most casual thing in the world. Maybe it is to the French, but to an American, I now do not know what to do with myself. Loire should be aware of American customs — that was probably a requirement when Fleming stuck us with her; Fleming wouldn't leave us with someone who knows nothing of our culture beyond what language we speak — and should be aware that kissing, unless the perpetrator is drunk or high or reckless, is usually an intimate act, and I'm not saying that we aren't intimate, as we do share undeniable physical tenderness, just that this is not how what we have should be displayed. She instructed me to kiss the one I love, and then proceeded to kiss me.

Does she love me? Does Loire Babinot, mystic of the world, love a cynical writer who messes up far too often? It seems unlikely. Her best bet would be Lent, which she's already noticed by holding his hand and tussling his hair, not someone whose eyes are obviously trained solely on another. Sure, I would willingly date Loire if Lent weren't the crux of my focus, but the circumstances have aligned in such a way that an opportunity like that will never transpire, and I still don't even know if Loire injected meaning into her kiss.

I allow myself a minute to breath, to sort through what the hell just struck me like a fucking freight train, to compose myself before I face the subject of interest. Generally, I can recover from things pretty quickly, but the complexity of Loire's decisions kicks me deeper into the ground each time I try to climb upward. After a while, however, I muster enough strength to step out of the bedroom and into the living area, where Lent and Loire study the painting from the previous creative session.

Loire pretends that she does not know anything about what occurred a few minutes prior to this moment, and she doesn't even give a single indication to me, the victim of her crime and its succeeding confusion. It ticks me off a bit, but on the other hand I'm somewhat thankful that she isn't making a scene about what we shared in the bedroom, as she would both warn Lent away from my affections, and she would put me on the spot, none of which I wish to see happen. I, however, am struggling to keep my veneer taped all around my body, but Lent is too occupied with retrieving his painting from yesterday to catch me, leaving me spare time to adjust myself and perfect my lie.

Loire glides over to me, legs swishing as a substitute for a flowing skirt, and grasps my hand to pull me over, but not before offering a kiss that rides dangerously close to my lips, a kiss that Loire doesn't acknowledge as anything out of the ordinary. "Basil, honey, come and see Lent's painting."

I sheepishly comply, but my feet are not so obedient. They trip over each other with every step, despite the pleas of my mind that order them to stop. Beautiful women confuse me, and Loire is ethereal. She can't just do this, and expect me to be all right. God, am I in love with both of my friends? And is it destroying me?

Smiles scrub any apprehension from my companions' faces as Lent holds up his painting and Loire gestures to it to soak up my opinion, and I think that my slackened jaw and wide eyes can say enough for them. What Lent has created is something that convinces me that every time I pestered him about his art I was a villain, blind to his artistic capacity. He tweaked some details here and there, primarily replacing the background of the painting with darkness and the faintest splotch of hands tugging towards the model so that our Parisian flat won't render the masterpiece mundane, and I'm loving every bit of it.