A/N: Sometimes, you have to take a break from your chapter stories.
Sorry, all, but Bride of the Duke, Crazy Love, and Forever will be taking a
hiatus until my muse and my schedule return to normal.
Story is inspired by a "song" written in the novel "Marjorie Morningstar" by Herman Wouk.
Paris, 1960
They whisper that he's crazy. They whisper that he hears voices, probably a result of the time when he did more drugs than we do. That was way back in the 1890's. How old is he, anyway? We don't know since he never talks. Not much.
We call him Old Moon Face because he looks just like the mythical "Man in the Moon." Big, wise seawater-colored eyes. Tufts of white hair that stick up all over the place. Pale. We call him Old Moon Face because he's got a habit of watching young couples through his window. He likes to peer in, that big white face of his startling in the night.
Stories have been told about Old Moon Face. They tell us that he had a lover back when the Moulin Rouge was still around. We've heard about her; she was the Sparkling Diamond or something. Her name was Satin. Or was it Satine? Well, something like that. She was his prosititute lover and in that book he wrote, a book that isn't found anywhere except pricey antique bookstores where it looks shoddy next to the elaborate bindings of Dumas and Dickens, it says they were in the most fantastic love ever until she died. Old Moon Face has been crazy ever since.
Old Moon Face is kind of peculiar aside from the whole peeking-in thing. Every Saturday at exactly 11:08 p.m. he buys a bouquet of white roses. No one's ever seen him throw these flowers out, either. Old Moon Face's apartment must be full of dying white roses.
Old Moon Face doesn't have any family; they said he was very close with the famous artist Toulouse-Lautrec, but he's been dead almost sixty years. He doesn't have friends, either. Old Moon Face is just that mad old man sitting up in his apartment staring through the window. He's reclusive; the only things he ever says to anyone are "Excuse me" or "Thank you."
I like to watch him watching me. He's partial to redheads and my apartment is just across from his. I can see easily into his dim, candle-lit room; it's filled with paintings of a ghostly woman with hair almost the exact shade of mine. That must be his Satin/Satine. What a shrine!
"Who are you watching?" Asks Jacques, who wraps his strong arms around my waist and peers out the window as I do.
"Old Moon Face."
He's staring right back at me. I've never noticed before how expressive his eyes are in that wrinkly old man's face. Jacques' breathing is hot and tickles the back of my neck. Lightly he kisses me and Old Moon Face just watches and a faint, almost wistful smile graces his features. When he smiles he looks ages younger. "Oh, Moon Face, how sorry I feel for you."
"Step away from the window, Claudine," whispers my dark-haired Jacques. "Leave that poor old man alone." He pulls me in for another kiss but I'm not focusing on the feelings he can arouse in me. I'm only thinking of Old Moon Face and maybe he's watching us and reliving his time with that prostitute. "He must have really loved her," I say to Jacques. "To not ever marry or fall in love again."
"He loved her as I love you." Old Moon Face's eyes glint with tears glittering golden in the orange flicker of the candle. Eyes of seawater, eyes drained of all color by years and years of unshed tears. "Now close the window."
With a long, lingering last look at Old Moon Face, whose eyes plead with me silently, I close the curtains.
Story is inspired by a "song" written in the novel "Marjorie Morningstar" by Herman Wouk.
Paris, 1960
They whisper that he's crazy. They whisper that he hears voices, probably a result of the time when he did more drugs than we do. That was way back in the 1890's. How old is he, anyway? We don't know since he never talks. Not much.
We call him Old Moon Face because he looks just like the mythical "Man in the Moon." Big, wise seawater-colored eyes. Tufts of white hair that stick up all over the place. Pale. We call him Old Moon Face because he's got a habit of watching young couples through his window. He likes to peer in, that big white face of his startling in the night.
Stories have been told about Old Moon Face. They tell us that he had a lover back when the Moulin Rouge was still around. We've heard about her; she was the Sparkling Diamond or something. Her name was Satin. Or was it Satine? Well, something like that. She was his prosititute lover and in that book he wrote, a book that isn't found anywhere except pricey antique bookstores where it looks shoddy next to the elaborate bindings of Dumas and Dickens, it says they were in the most fantastic love ever until she died. Old Moon Face has been crazy ever since.
Old Moon Face is kind of peculiar aside from the whole peeking-in thing. Every Saturday at exactly 11:08 p.m. he buys a bouquet of white roses. No one's ever seen him throw these flowers out, either. Old Moon Face's apartment must be full of dying white roses.
Old Moon Face doesn't have any family; they said he was very close with the famous artist Toulouse-Lautrec, but he's been dead almost sixty years. He doesn't have friends, either. Old Moon Face is just that mad old man sitting up in his apartment staring through the window. He's reclusive; the only things he ever says to anyone are "Excuse me" or "Thank you."
I like to watch him watching me. He's partial to redheads and my apartment is just across from his. I can see easily into his dim, candle-lit room; it's filled with paintings of a ghostly woman with hair almost the exact shade of mine. That must be his Satin/Satine. What a shrine!
"Who are you watching?" Asks Jacques, who wraps his strong arms around my waist and peers out the window as I do.
"Old Moon Face."
He's staring right back at me. I've never noticed before how expressive his eyes are in that wrinkly old man's face. Jacques' breathing is hot and tickles the back of my neck. Lightly he kisses me and Old Moon Face just watches and a faint, almost wistful smile graces his features. When he smiles he looks ages younger. "Oh, Moon Face, how sorry I feel for you."
"Step away from the window, Claudine," whispers my dark-haired Jacques. "Leave that poor old man alone." He pulls me in for another kiss but I'm not focusing on the feelings he can arouse in me. I'm only thinking of Old Moon Face and maybe he's watching us and reliving his time with that prostitute. "He must have really loved her," I say to Jacques. "To not ever marry or fall in love again."
"He loved her as I love you." Old Moon Face's eyes glint with tears glittering golden in the orange flicker of the candle. Eyes of seawater, eyes drained of all color by years and years of unshed tears. "Now close the window."
With a long, lingering last look at Old Moon Face, whose eyes plead with me silently, I close the curtains.