by Grace Bialecki
Months after I left him, I still remembered The Former French Husband’s history lesson given from his moto. Picasso, Gide, la résistance et l’occupation, inevitably ending in the gutting of Hôtel Lutetia. Later, chauffeurless, I returned via the 86 bus. Frigid night. City lights. My Parisian life, and its textbook reckless behavior sashaying into the place The Former French Husband so disdained. Now gaudy, nouveau luxury, ravaged by rich tourists. Yes, I let them fuck me. The wife mostly, while the husband played with himself in the corner. Both their photos false advertising, but mine didn’t lie— you’re so tiny, she yelped as she stripped me bare. Orgasms, then the imperative cigarette. Possessions triple-checked, I made my exit. Sole set of footsteps in the marble lobby, promiscuity wafting off me, as I fingered my cab money and told the concierge to call one in my silkiest French. My therapist would have had a field day with all of this, so of course, I never told her.
Grace Bialecki is a writer, meditation teacher, and workshop facilitator who inspires artists to be present in their lives and with the work. Her writing has appeared in various publications including The Millions, Catapult, and Epiphany Magazine where she was a monthly columnist. Grace has performed her poetry in Detroit, Paris, and at New York’s KGB Bar and Salmagundi Club. She is the co-founder of the storytelling series Thirst, and the author of the novel Purple Gold (ANTIBOOKCLUB).
Emerge Literary Journal 