The Corner of 18th & Amour
The Atlantic Divide
This is a continuation of The Atlantic Divide, a collaboration with Anna Breslin. Part two begins with A Leap of Faith and is followed by La Vie en Rose. They can be read on their own but, like any love story, are much better together.
The greatest success of Marguerite’s life left her feeling empty and exhausted. The hour was late, the gallery long emptied of patrons. The bubbly atmosphere of earlier, enlivened by champagne dreams, had slowly dissipated into quiet confusion. Her feet hurt. She sat on the top step of the glass staircase that overlooked the foyer and removed her shoes.
The faint sound of music rose up through the air. She recognized the tune but couldn’t place it. Marguerite chewed on the inside of her cheek, ruminating over the events of the day.
Alex had finally stepped into her life. Against all odds and expectations, he stood before her with a stunned look on his face, like he’d seen a ghost behind him in the mirror. Marguerite felt sure that she had blushed at first glance and shivered when the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.
Then, someone outside their tunnel of silent communion bumped into him, and suds of champagne splashed against his fiance’s sparkling blue dress. She ran off to the toilets, leaving the two of them a few minutes alone. Though Alex assured her they weren’t engaged, she wasn’t so sure. Men will say anything in the heat of the moment.
“Is this the Fates bringing us together at last?” he said, kissing her cheeks thrice. Beneath the sweet odor of alcohol on his breath, she could smell an intoxicating mix of sandalwood and sweat. He was dashing in a way, but somewhat shorter than she expected.
When he told her he thought of her every day a lump caught in her throat. Could she say the same about him? No, she had tamped the memory of him down into the depths of the soul. And yet here he was, asking her to meet him tomorrow afternoon at a restaurant across the street. She decided on the spot that she would go. Of course she would. How could she not? But not without reservations.
Marguerite could taste blood coming from her cheek. She frowned, tonguing the torn flesh inside her mouth. A surge of mixed emotions cascaded from her head to her toes. She reproached herself for her naivety. Didn’t she want him? Hadn’t she known that from the first moment she heard him speak? But at what cost? What damage might love do, before all was said and done?
Chatter and laughter of departing guests echoed as they exited out onto the city streets. More music, louder this time, came forth with an instantly recognizable tune. The horns pulsed in staccato bursts — pom-pa-pom-pa-pom — mixing delicately with the hovering strings. A crescendo, and then, that unmistakable voice:
Non, rien de rien. Non, je ne regrette rien.
Marguerite found herself rising to her feet, singing along, while shadow dancing a waltz. The song lifted her, higher and higher, to a point of clarity. She twirled barefoot on the cool marble floor.
Fate had brought her to this place at this point in time. She decided to reject the pull of self-doubt and the forgery of nostalgia. She had already taken one leap of faith. Now, she knew, she must roll the dice once more.
Car ma vie…
Car mes joies…
Aujourd’hui…
Ça commence avec toi
Marguerite crossed her arms in front of her on the final note of the song and then spread them wide, like a monarch butterfly unfurling its wings after emerging from the cocoon. Applause greeted her from the foyer below. She opened her eyes and saw Burton clapping.
“Tremendous,” he called. “Just tremendous.”
He grabbed the guardrail and ascended to join her.
She was running late and knew it. A rapid-fire rendition of merde escaped her lips again and again as she ascended the steps of the subway station at 14th Street. The autumn rain stung her lips and eyes. She ran, skipping over puddles and pedestrians carrying umbrellas, past the hot dog stand being monitored by three leashed dogs, around the corner at 18th, and back to where all this started the night before.
Across from the restaurant, she just barely missed the kid on the skateboard cutting through traffic.
“Enculé!” she shouted in exasperation.
Feeling hot and disheveled, Marguerite undid the belt of her tan trench and tried to tame her hair.
She entered the restaurant dripping wet. The waiter came and appraised her, saying, “Girl, you been singing in the rain?”
Her laugh unlocked her chest enough to take a breath.
Marguerite scanned the tables and saw Alex standing by the window with a red rose in his hand. She waved. A momentary shock of embarrassment inflamed her cheeks when she realized he had probably been watching her this entire time. Her heart and mind detached from her body, which floated across the checkered tile to his waiting arms. She brushed her cheeks up against his day-old stubble.
“You made it.”
“I did.”
“I was beginning to think…” he paused.
They locked eyes, and the irony in his expression became clearer.
“Oh, stop,” she softly slapped his shoulder with the back tips of her hand. “You know, your metro system is a mess.”
Alex raised an eyebrow. “Is that so? Let that be a New York lesson: always take a cab.” He then proffered the rose. “I got this for you.”
Marguerite took it and raised it to her nose. “Thank you. It’s beautiful.”
“It pales when compared to you.”
“You’re too kind.”
“Please,” he gestured with his arm. “Sit. Here, let me take your jacket.”
“Désolé,” she took a napkin and dabbed at her face. She felt sure the eyeshadow she’d put on before sprinting out the door was a runny mess. “Je suis trempé jusqu’au l’os.”
“Ne t’inquiète pas,” he said, reaching within his inner jacket pocket for a handkerchief.
“Thanks. I forgot you speak French very well.”
“What can I say? I’m a lawyer by day, poet by night.”
Marguerite smiled but didn’t know where to put her hands. She recalled table etiquette ingrained since childhood — wrist placement, napkin, and posture, then reset her pose to something more natural with the internal shake of an Etch-a-Sketch. She looked over at Alex, who sat leaning back with his legs crossed, poring over the contents of the wine menu.
“I’m so bad at these types of decisions. What kind of wine do you like?”
Marguerite puckered her lips, then asked, “Do they have a Côte du Rhône?”
“I was thinking more along the lines of red and white. Here,” he held out the menu for her, “you choose.”
“Do you like something sweet and fruity or more — c’est quoi ‘amer’ en anglais?”
“Bitter.” Alex rubbed the outline of a mustache. “Is there something more in the middle?”
Marguerite forced herself to focus on the menu. It was strange, everything looked the same. She was distracted. She wanted to absorb every detail of the man across from her, yet didn’t want to seem like a fawning teenager or worse, disinterested and bored.
“Are you liking New York so far?”
“It’s very…tall. The sky is cut into ribbons here.”
“Yeah,” Alex considered for a moment. “The view is better on top.”
The waiter came before she had made up her mind, so she improvised and ordered at random. She hoped Alex wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.
They slipped into murmurs of chit-chat, together at last yet still terribly far apart. Marguerite imagined an invisible barrier between them and wondered when one of them would have the courage to say what was really on their minds.
She glanced across the street at the gallery, that edifice of mahogany and glass. She thought she could see Burton standing there on the upper level, hand on his chin, watching them. Was it her imagination? She closed her eyes for a moment and remembered how he had climbed the stairs the night before, placed his hands on her shoulders, and kissed her.
The wine came and she and Alex toasted to chance, the French word for luck. Alex took a sip and said it was delicious. Marguerite smelled hers first and teased out the aromas, violet and plum, plus a deep, earthy minerality. Alex gazed at her in adoring expectation. It was clear he was already prepared to break it off with his fiancee, Evelyn, or whatever she called herself, to run away with her. Marguerite sighed. She was tired of running. She smiled softly, then lifted the glass to her lips. Of course, it was perfectly bittersweet.
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