Spontanéité

Les toits de Paris // short story

Eyes open

Clear, bright and a constantly indecipherable mix of colours- grey, green, gold, brown and blue-, her eyes, outlined by brown eyelashes and often framed by blue-rimmed glasses, were unwavering in their focus. They were fixed on the horizon.

Her long dark hair, always haphazardly uncontrollable in its frizziness, streamed behind her and around her in the soft breezes, wild and free. Wearing a thin, pale grey hoodie declaring 'gâteau chocolat pour la vie' and her worn Totoro pyjama pants, she sat, hugging one of her knees to her chest, watching as the first days of sunlight painted the sky, dipping the world in orange and pink and gold, all mixed in with purple and blue.

I'm floating
Love, take me away

She was sitting comfortably in a nook of sorts, the dark slate flat and smooth beneath her. Cold, too, but nothing she couldn't handle. One of her legs hung over the edge of where she sat, and her foot was almost touching the upper windowsill. The shutters were open, of course, and if she listened past the whispering winds and early morning greetings of birds, she could probably hear the soft rustle of leaves of paper, from inside her room. The tiny balcony beneath her wasn't visible from her vantage point.
She felt alive, sitting there on the roof.
Sure, the wind was soft and it wasn't like there was anything exciting happening, per se, but still.
She felt on top of the world.
She didn't feel invincible or particularly powerful, not as if she could fly- she was still only a human, after all- but there was just something incredible about it. Something hard to describe.
A quiet exhilaration.
She felt like her heart was light and floating.
She felt like the everyday was somewhere else, and she wasn't a part of it.
She was somewhere else, far far away.

You're reaching
I'm feeling I can't be the same

She heard a soft creak- the opening of a window- a soft shuffle of noises, and then soft footsteps, coming to a stop behind her. For some reason, none of this alarmed or surprised her. It hadn't happened before, never had anyone joined her up on the roof of her apartment block, but she held no fear, no nothing.

She turned, slowly, to take in a small figure, wearing a dull blue hoodie and light grey trackpants. The hood was pulled over their head, and she couldn't tell if the figure was a child or teen, boy or girl. They appeared to be looking at her, head down, standing sure and unafraid of falling, as if they'd been up there before. But that couldn't have been possible, since she came up every dawn if she could, and she'd never seen anyone else up there before.

"Bonjour. Comment vas-tu?" she asked, giving them a small smile. Good morning. How are you? They reached out a hand, to shake, and she took it, mildly surprised at their firm, sure grip and the soft warmth behind it.

"Ça va, merci." I'm alright, thank you. It was the quiet voice of a child. A boy. He turned to face the rising sun, and she followed his gaze. In her peripheral vision, the light seemed to outline him in soft gold. The fact that his clothes were so dull and pale only meant he seemed to glow, although she still couldn't see his face.

In the streets below, there were some of the daily first signs of movement, of preparation for the day ahead. La Boulangerie-pâtisserie locale had its lights flicker on through the decorated glass window, and she could see Monsieur Drapeau rearranging the layout of his window display, disappearing into the back of the shop, off to do his baking. Across the street, she saw Mademoiselle Boucharde emerge from her apartment block and start out on her daily morning jog, crossing paths with the postman, Monsieur Safroun, as he walked down the street with his two dogs.