As I Breathe (One Breath at a Time: Book 2) (26 page)

Back in New York, although I was a rising young novelist, I had become a recluse during the last year, tiptoeing toward the next decade of my life alone and spending too many hours slouched over my computer. The life of an author to be exact. After the breakup with Spencer, the only comforts that I had found to keep me warm at night were a mug of authentic hot chocolate, my grandmother’s shawl, or an occasional glass of
vin rouge
to help put me to sleep. They were hardly a substitute for the feeling of a man’s arms wrapped around me.

Now I was alone in the city of love—what a waste. It was my hope that Paris would open new doors. Hell, I’d settle for simply a window.

A cool and sobering breeze fluttered through my hair. I gazed out the large window and wished away the glass building across the street, imagining that I could see the Eiffel Tower directly from my seat. I wanted to see the dark sky and all the beautiful stars twinkling in the night. But, there were no stars to be seen. The only thing I could see was that
damn
glass building that blocked the best view Paris had to offer. So much for seeing the Eiffel Tower lit up at night, like the view Mr. Piccart’s ancestors marveled over many years ago.

I sighed heavily, grasping onto the banister of the stairwell in an attempt to stand, and dropped my bag. I was too drunk to bend over to get it, so for the moment I left it there. I sank my bum back down onto the saggy wooden step.

I heard the sound of a door creaking on the ground floor level. I sat very still, hidden in the shadows. The sound of feet shuffled like that of a zombie across the floor. My breath hinged in my lungs.

I swallowed hard sitting and waiting for the unknown source to reveal itself. Then, out of nowhere Mr. Piccart poked his head into the stairwell, looking up. I sank into myself, without much reaction, but relieved to see it was him.

He wore an old-fashioned quilted satin smoking jacket over a pair of red silk pajamas and had black leather slippers on his feet. His outfit wouldn’t have been complete without the ascot around his neck. What an image!

“
Bonjour,
Mr. Piccart.” I did my best greeting him, complete with an overly exaggerated French accent, which was pretty pathetic by any standards.

“
I thought I heard you come in, Brielle.” His eyes questioned
why
I was sitting on the stairs. “Are you okay, Mademoiselle?” he asked.

“
Oui
, I’m fine, it’s just my feet…they hurt terribly, and I ate too much, drank way too much and smoked one too many cigarettes. I just wanted to rest here for a minute. I’m feeling a little nausea.” I felt my stomach gurgle at the mention of the word sick.

“
I remember those days all too well.” He smiled as he inhaled deeply, pressing his lips together into a straight line. Then, he released a long breath and sighed, perhaps, reflecting for a moment. “Well, dear, you have a good night then. This old guy is going back to bed.” He turned and slowly made his way back to his flat.

“
Bien Sur. Merci
, Mr. Piccart,” I called out after him, practicing my
petit
French.

“
Hold onto the banister when you go up, dear. Those stairs are as rickety and as ancient as me.” His voice resonated through the corridor. “I wouldn’t want you to fall.”

“
I won’t,
Bonne nuit!”
My voice echoed into the night. The lobby grew so silent that I heard the deadbolt on his front door click into place. I was alone, again.

The alcohol was taking its toll. I vowed never to drink again. We should have stopped at a glass or two rather than indulging in the two or three bottles that were sent to our table by a few interested men.

A melancholy feeling pressed hard on my heart. I thought of my ex, Spencer, and the heartache and despair of how things ended so badly between us. I closed my eyes in an attempt to hold back the long overdue tears. I hadn’t shed a single one since the day we said our goodbyes.

“
You look very sad,” A man’s voice came out of the silence.

I let out a scream at the top of my lungs, and then realized that Mr. Piccart had returned. He was a sneaky cat.

“Oh my goodness, Mr. Piccart you nearly gave me a heart-attack.” I inhaled deeply, trying to hide my sudden scare.

“
I’m sorry, dear. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“
It’s alright; I’m a little jumpy tonight. I’m just glad it was you.” My speech was breathless.

“
Just little old me. I couldn’t sleep.” He shrugged.

“
Oh dear. I hope I didn’t disturb you.” I sighed.

“
Not at all. I have a fire stoking in my living room. Would you like to come down and sober up with some coffee? I just set up my projector, and I’m about to screen a vintage film that I restored. It might be one of the most complete versions of the original
Lost Horizon.
That’s my hope anyway. I’m about to find out if it contains the missing scenes. Please, come join me.”

“
Oh, that
is
one of my favorite old movies and so nice of you to ask, but can I take a rain check? I’m already halfway up the stairs, and I really need a shower and well—I need to get some writing in. I’m kind of behind.” The excuses were flying. I just wanted to be alone. Well, not alone but not with Mr. Piccart, even as sweet as he was. “Gosh, the way I’m feeling tonight will throw that much more pathos into creating a plot for the novel. I really need something to motivate me,” I whispered, barely audible. “But, thanks again for the invite.”

“
You’re welcome, Brielle. I hope you find some personal happiness here in Paris. Your work is very good, which is why we invited you to the program. I can tell you the reason you were chosen is fate. You’re meant to be here, to do something even more important than writing a mystery novel in Paris.”

“
Aww, thank you for your confidence in me,” I humbly replied.

“
Always,” he said. “Sorry I can’t climb the stairs and visit with you longer.” He patted his thighs. “The phlebitis in my legs keeps me on the ground floor of everything as you know…
Bonne nuit
.”

I said good night as he made his way back towards his apartment. Within minutes, I could faintly hear the whirl of a film projector followed by the opening music credits of a movie. He’d probably fall asleep before the ending.

-25-

Coveting Thy Neighbors

I went a bit higher on the stairs, a few more steps up, so Mr. Piccart couldn’t see me if he came out into the hallway again. I drew my knees up against my breasts and held them in tightly with my arms, feeling vulnerable if I wasn’t all tucked up inside of myself. I felt the press of tears behind my eyes.

I lowered my head and rested my chin on my knees, focusing on the fashionable tattered rip in the kneecap of my jeans. It reminded me of how Spencer used to slide his fingertips into the torn holes of my jeans to caress my skin. It’s funny how the mind works—it’s the sweet little things someone does that we never forget. Too bad we didn’t share the same dreams!

I closed my eyes and struggled to shake off his memory, to no avail, a cathartic cry escaped my lips. Nine months of pent up emotions touched every corner of me.

Tears stung against my wind burnt cheeks. He was gone, and so was our love—the love that I had been counting on to last forever. But it had not. I wanted to hate him, to love him, and to be with him. I still missed him so much, but it was time to let go!
Qué Sera, Sera!

“
Nothing is forever,” I purged out loud. I didn’t care who heard my cries as my voice echoed against the old walls of the brownstone.

Suddenly, I saw a light burning brightly through my closed eyelids. I blinked a few times to clear the blurriness caused by my tears and lifted my head. The light was coming from my neighbor’s window from the building across the way.

The large window in the atrium of my building had morphed into a live-action theater, and my neighbors were the stars. I wiped away the salty teardrops that clung to my lips.

“
Oh, my…my…” I whispered all breathy.

I was surprised at how vividly I could see the smallest details inside their flat, from the artwork and the tacky tassels on accent pillows, to a cigarette burning away in a red hand-blown glass ashtray. At first, I only saw the man removing his jacket, then tossing it on the back of a chair.

He picked up a remote control off the table and pointed it toward the stereo system. I could see all the lights fire up on the system.

My neighbor was tall and rather slender with wavy coal-black hair, and much leaner than I preferred, although I could see he packed some nice muscles beneath the white t-shirt he wore. His hips were narrow, which caused an illusion of him having very broad shoulders.

A striking female appeared behind him and encircled his waist with her arms. She gripped onto his torso tightly as her fingers reached down towards his groin. He whisked her around to the front of him, pulling her into his chest. She clasped her arms around his neck, dangling her body weight against his. She flipped her head backwards, an expression of laughter dancing across her face. Her bold ruby-red lipstick contrasted brightly against her pale ivory skin.

It was so retro, the way her light brown hair cascaded down around her shoulders into smooth, polished finger waves. She wore a hip-hugging black pencil skirt and stockings paired with high-heeled black Mary Jane pumps.

I could see mounds of cleavage protruding above her disheveled white button-up blouse. It was unlikely that she was a French girl with all those humps wiggling in different directions. Most French girls are much thinner in comparison to this dame.

The couple embraced each other passionately, kissing and stumbling into pieces of furniture as they made their way to the sofa; it was both comical and sensual. The man sat down and clutched her by her hourglass waist. He attempted to pull her into him.

She leaned back, pretending to resist his efforts, teasingly, I could tell. A flirtatious smile beamed across her face as she began to dance erotically, circling her hips from side to side.

I licked my lips, watching them, feeling shame boiling up inside of me, and yet, also, an impassioned yearning. I couldn’t have ripped my eyes away for anything.

It’s wrong, I know, to spy on others, but after all, aren’t we always voyeurs when we go to the movies? I justified away the guilt by telling myself that I was only doing what a movie audience would do—looking through a lens, in this case, a window, at the private lives of strangers.

The dark-haired beauty balanced on one leg and raised the other, slightly bent at the knee and swayed it above his lap. The man ran his hands up her leg and under her skirt then slowly back down to her ankles and removed her high heel. He carefully set the shoe on the floor under the sofa. He repeated this with her other leg.

Next, she seductively positioned her foot in the center of his manhood, calling to attention his sex with her probing toes. He leaned back into the sofa pressing his pelvis toward her. She gracefully shimmied her skirt up to the fullest part of her hips, lifting one leg straight out, and placed the ball of her foot on the frame of his shoulder for balance.

She then adjusted her garter and began removing her silk stocking. His eyes grazed over her body with admiration and paused directly between her thighs. After she unfastened and removed the other stocking, she danced, using the stockings like a feather boa. She then held each stocking in separate hands, twisting her wrists into circles, which made the stockings spiral.

The man grabbed the end of one of the stockings. Before the stocking slid through his fingers, he buried his face into it, keeping his bedroom eyes locked on her as she continued to dance for him.

I gasped. Her dance was erotic as was witnessing him captured in the web of her seduction.

When he leaned in to kiss her, she stretched back from him with the same flirtatious grin that I had seen earlier on her face. She seemed to love being in control of the dalliance. As he continued to enjoy his wine, she seductively slid her finger into his glass then inserted its entire length into her mouth. She provocatively licked and twisted her tongue around her own finger.

The man’s top teeth bit down over his bottom lip, and he licked his lips. She continued to tease him, tracing her fingers down to his zipper, moving it up and down. And then she left the zipper down, unfurling his masculinity.

She leaned down into his groin. I almost fell off the stairs at this point, watching their live sex show. If not for hanging onto the banister, as Mr. Piccart had cautioned me, I would have taken a tumble down the stairs, for sure.

When I caught my balance, my eyes swept up and back across the street into the fishbowl building. The man leaned in to kiss her again, but instead she interrupted his kiss by inserting several fingers deep into his mouth. He sucked on them gently, probing his tongue around and between them.

This cat-and-mouse tango went on for a few more moments, I was beginning to wonder how much more teasing he would put up with. She was like the queen of the jungle in a black garter belt and push-up bra. The lioness was tempting the king of the jungle to pounce on her—and if he didn’t, surely, she would strike first.