Mon Cher

---

“You’re not looking at it correctly, Marie.”

“How can I look at it any other way? With my other pair of eyes, I suppose?”

“Stand further back – appreciate the whole. Look at that composition, Marie! It’s it just perfection?”

“It’s pleasant, I suppose.”

“Pleasant? Marie, it’s a masterpiece! The proportions are exquisite.”

Another one of our waspish exchanges resounds in my head as I peer at a landscape painting; I imagine your disdain at the artist’s name being unfamiliar to me. In my view, it is a crude and unremarkable work, but nevertheless I study it closely, as if I still need to impress you by finding higher meaning. Why is it that in your company, all sparks of my intellect seem to dim and disappear? I sense you move on to the next painting, as if to distance yourself from my ignorance.

It’s been many a year since we’ve been here, hasn’t it, mon cher? There was a time when we were often seen frequenting les expositions de Paris, mixing with the fashionable crowd – not just the artists, but the freethinkers, the bohemians, the philosophers of our revolutionary age. In your sharp, man-about-town suit you revelled in it, oozing charm and respectability. You’d greet Monsieurs Renoir, Dégas and Monet like old friends, enjoying the music of your own voice as you spoke of quality of light, of expressive brushwork and complimentary colours… A painting to me just filled a space on a wall, but to you it was a door to a magical realm.

Your friends don’t seem to remember me; either that, or they are purposefully evading me, my black gown a blatant warning signal. They always spoke to you, but never to me. I was just your accessory, like your pocket-watch or your bowler hat. I suppose I should be grateful that you took me out of the house from time to time. It was also very generous of you to frequently disappear, on a mere whim, sometimes for days on end. I learned to like the solitude, the quiet.

I don’t blame them for what happened to you. You were your own downfall, in the end. You thought you could paint out reality with parties, absinthe and strange women. Yes, I know about the other life you led, mon cher.

You thought I was naïve little Marie, your little pet to keep at home and shelter. Well, I was playing my own game. I didn’t ask questions when shifty characters came knocking at our door. I pretended not to notice the tinge of alcohol on your breath when you pecked my cheek, having casually wandered in after a night of sin. I guarded your charade, allowing you weave your web of lies because it was easier that way. I’m just as guilty as you, mon cher. My silence is my sin. I’m such a fool.

Reality never seemed to satisfy you, did it? I know I certainly didn’t. It is an irony indeed that I have found my imagination now that you are no longer here. I see you standing beside me, slightly blurred around the edges, as if you were daubed in paint, my mind playing cruel tricks on me. The grim truth is I am alone, and unable to forget you.