You Break My Heart I Break Your Neck

Monica grabbed a day old croissant from the fridge and wedging it into her mouth. She slung her tote bag and purse over her shoulder and pulled on her flame orange scarf from the coat wrack next to the door. It was monogrammed with M&M, like the candy logo, but for Monica Mendez. The keys were on the hook along the door jam; for once she didn’t have to search for them while rushing out the door. As she reached for the knob the cat dashed between her ankles causing her to stumble and leap from the apartment rather than make a smooth exit. The croissant in her mouth muffled the curses she shouted at Snickers, her cat. Monica swung around and locked the door, ready to run for the stairs but her scarf caught in the closing door, tightening alarmingly around her neck. Only four minutes left to make it to the bus stop two blocks away. She jerked at the scarf hoping it would free easily. It didn’t. The jerking did however dislodge her breakfast from her lips. It bounced on the carpeted floor leaving a trail of crumbs as it rolled away. “Damn!” Stamping her foot she reached to unlock the door.


Finally freed she hurried down the stairs. At the bottom landing Monica grabbed the newel post using it to catapult herself around 180 degrees toward the front door, like a child, in a hurry to go play. As she spun she was stopped abruptly, slamming into the hard, broad chest of a man. His arms instinctively came up to catch her as she rebounded, startled and disoriented. No one should be here this time of morning. “Pardonnez-moi…” She began in breathless French, trailing off into silence as her eye landed on the face belonging to the wall of a man she that she collided with full force. In his dark eyes was the look of someone seeing home after a very long difficult journey.

Emotions ran across her face like clouds racing across the sky in the wind. Questions formed on her lips but no sound would come. What are you doing here? How did you find me? Why? Were all there, clearly seen, but never spoken, questions.

His strong hands held her elbows, steadying her. Good thing too, since the strength had leaked from her legs like air from balloons, leaving her sagging and deflated, against him. The man wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close, lifting her off her ineffective feet. He swung Monica up into his arms and mounted the stairs carrying her toward the apartment she had only just left. He knew which was hers without asking. He had read the slip of paper containing her address over and over, memorizing it, as he worked his way through the streets of Paris to find her.

Monica’s keys were still in her hand. He lowered her to her feet, the croissant crumbs from seconds ago crunched under her weight, and slipped the keys easily from her stunned fingers. Keeping one arm around her, his eyes locked on hers, the man opened the door and shepherded her in. Just inside, he couldn’t hold back any longer. He pressed his lips against hers trapping her against the closed door. He needed to feel every inch of her against every inch of himself to confirm she was really there. She answered his deep, hungry kiss with equal fervor. Until that moment Monica had not allowed herself to realize how empty and bereft of feelings her heart had become, gaunt and sunken from lack of joy. As she drank in his passion, her heart filled with life like a thirsty man refreshed with cool water.

Snickers, curious about Monica’s return, forced herself between their ankles in a figure eight, purring and nuzzling at the visitor’s rough jeans. The thud of Monica’s tote bag and purse dropping to the floor sent Snickers scurrying away.

The man’s hands moved over Monica’s breasts, across her ribcage, caressed her hips around to her back. Following the curve of her spine to her neck, the fringe of her wrap tickled the back of his hands. Monica’s leg moved up and encircled him pulling him closer. His hands trailed along the scarf until they found the ends. Her hands pushed their way to his curly black hair. The feel and smell of him unlocking memories that made her head swim. His hands wound themselves in the length of the silk and pulled ever so slightly, imperceptibly tightening the soft folds wrapped around her neck. Monica inhaled deeply, intoxicated by his cologne, the pomade in his hair, the clean soapy scent of his neck, his smoky, musky jacket. Exhaling a deep sigh she tried to speak, to tell what she was feeling.

Her lover pulled harder on the scarf, his hands gripped so tight his knuckles paled and his nails dug into his palms. Monica felt the pressure and moved to gently release his grip. Without releasing the scarf he trapped her wrists in his grip and pulled the fabric tighter. Her eyelids flew apart like startled birds. Confused, shocked, she gasped. Air tried to rush in but was stopped by the silky noose. His lips were still against hers, muffling Monica’s attempted scream, his body immobilizing hers. Her heart, which had been warmed and filled with unexpected joy, turned to cold stone. The twisting and writhing from pleasure turned to wild panicked thrashing. Her head turned just enough to escape his imprisoning lips. No sound, no scream, no air could escape.

His lips fell near her ear. “I told you I would never let you leave me.” His whisper was pained and tearful. The lights dimmed in Monica’s eyes, the sunshine pouring through the windows looked as if the moon had eclipsed the sun. Her struggles stopped. The man tightened the scarf further and pushed away so he could see her face. “You wouldn’t let me love you! You made me do this.” He cried as he watched the life fade from her wide frightened eyes. He kissed her gently as one might kiss a sleeping child.

He released his grip on the scarf after a moment, pulled his body away and guided Monica’s body to the floor careful not to let her fall. He unwound the scarf from around her and brought it to his face. He dried his tears, took in its fragrance and draped it around his neck. The M&M monogram trailing down his back.

Snickers returned, licking Monica’s cheek. The man picked up the cat, opened the door and left, careful to lock up behind him. “Paris will not shine as brightly without her, will it mon beau petit chat?”



* * *



The man sat down at a café on Rue Montorgueil. His sadness tangible and weighty. The unconcerned and impatient waitress awaited his order.

“Seulement café avec croissant, si vous plez,” he requested and waived her aside. Stroking Snickers coat of marbled brown, gold and creamy white fur he stared into the distance. It was a perfect late spring day. A woman in a green dress sat at a table not far away. Her warm brown skin glowed like copper in the sun. High cheekbones and almond eyes were framed by long thin dreadlocks which trailed down her slender back.

“She is quite lovely don’t you think, mon beau petit chat,” The man whispered into Snickers ear. “Such a graceful neck.” Snickers launched from the man’s arms and padded off silently to nuzzle against the woman’s bare legs and sandaled feet, licking her perfectly manicured toes.

“Oh! Where did you come from?” she exclaimed, surprised by the furry caress. Reaching down the copper skinned lady stroked the cat’s head. This was his cue. The man stood and moved to skirt around the tables of the café. He would reclaim his wandering cat and perhaps join this woman for coffee. A sudden gusty, springtime breeze swept by him lifting his flame orange scarf like a flag. His steps carried him close to the curb, the scarf fluttered out into the street just as a bus rushed by. It caught on something, a mirror, a wiper, a sign or some molding on the bus. Somehow the scarf caught. It pulled and tightened instantly, fatally around his neck. He spun once and was lifted into the air and just for a moment his body flew like a flag alongside the bus as is sped along the Rue Montorgueil.

The lady in green lifted Snickers to her breast. She looked for a collar or nametag but found none. Snickers licked at her nose, nuzzled her chin and purred. She looked up, down and across the street but saw no one. Shrugging, she set the cat back down on its feet and stood to go. The cat followed. It appears she now had a new friend.

I wrote this in early 2010.  Just a thought that turned into a short story. Ironic. 

 - Jennifer Lightfoot