CHAPTER 11: Jardin Suite
Paris, last summer
stories
11/08/23
The din of city noises and conversations still buzzing in her head while the heavy heat of the early evening lingers on her skin, she peels away from the crowds to find her longed-for refuge for the night. The place is familiar but she feels estranged. With each turn down the shadowy back-streets and dropping sun, she knows she is closer to solitude, to the quiet away from the bustling night revellers. A different world awaits behind a small plain door, revealing her jardin of seclusion.
The din of city noises and conversations still buzzing in her head while the heavy heat of the early evening lingers on her skin, she peels away from the crowds to find her longed-for refuge for the night. The place is familiar but she feels estranged. With each turn down the shadowy back-streets and dropping sun, she knows she is closer to solitude, to the quiet away from the bustling night revellers. A different world awaits behind a small plain door, revealing her jardin of seclusion.
After a short walk that felt like a thousand steps, she has arrived and unravels onto the crisp, cool sheets of the bed. As she lay quietly, whispers of burning thoughts start to fill her mind. “Some have deep certainties, unwavering rooted beliefs. Others are facing a void in that regard. How do you forge this armour? Can you even change that, can you learn?” The restless question lay heavy on her chest, fuelling her back onto her feet and back to the reality of the empty suite.
After a short walk that felt like a thousand steps, she has arrived and unravels onto the crisp, cool sheets of the bed. As she lay quietly, whispers of burning thoughts start to fill her mind. “Some have deep certainties, unwavering rooted beliefs. Others are facing a void in that regard. How do you forge this armour? Can you even change that, can you learn?” The restless question lay heavy on her chest, fuelling her back onto her feet and back to the reality of the empty suite.
Her suitcase, thrown in exhaustion onto the plush suite sofa, is filled with already distant souvenirs. Each piece is a character from the story, an emotional-player in the theatre of her past, but also the embodiment of a beginning, something else, the other woman.
Her suitcase, thrown in exhaustion onto the plush suite sofa, is filled with already distant souvenirs. Each piece is a character from the story, an emotional-player in the theatre of her past, but also the embodiment of a beginning, something else, the other woman.
The try-on commences; the suite doors open, allowing the smells of the late hours to breeze in, her make-up strewn on the bed, accessories draped across every surface and shoes thrown across the carpet, the scene is set and she feels the drama of dress-up start to envelop her. Dress up to face life. Dress up to stay alive.
The try-on commences; the suite doors open, allowing the smells of the late hours to breeze in, her make-up strewn on the bed, accessories draped across every surface and shoes thrown across the carpet, the scene is set and she feels the drama of dress-up start to envelop her. Dress up to face life. Dress up to stay alive.
