Flash Fiction
$100 PRIZE
by Kirsten Steen
She stood in the small museum staring at the painting.
She could almost see the color of his hair so like the tumbling
leaves of dazzling gold the artist had captured so brilliantly. She
moved closer as if it could bring her nearer to the time he was there.

"S’il vous plait." A voice startled her. “Not so close.” The guard’s
face softened and smiled as she turned toward him. She realized
that Paris' free Musee Carnavalet probably had no alarm system for
their exhibits but if they had, she was dangerously close to setting
them off. As it was, her nose had almost touched the ancient stone
arbor where he had kissed her the first time.

She’d crossed the pond to see this painting and the Abbey Vaux de
Cernay again. Twelve hours on a cramped 767 from San Francisco.
She’d been afraid, not of flying but of what she would find at the
Abbey. Or not find.

In the painting, the cathedral ruins and Stonehenge-style arbor were
outlined in a frothy mist, haunting the pieces on either side of it. She
wished she could reach out and touch the grass, stretching through
time with the same oils the painter had held in his hands as he
stood on the ancient grounds. But she caught the guard watching
her again, no smile this time.

She had to get to the Abbey. She left the museum without looking at
the city’s other snapshots of centuries past, without a glance at the
miniature-sized Medieval model of Paris with its tiny wooden bridges
and minuscule churches, walking right past the sloping gardens of
17th century estates frozen in time, Paris’ early suburbs. She made
her way out of the mansion-turned-museum to the Rue de Sevigne
and headed for the metro.

Paris was so different now with its belching motor cars and
screaming mopeds, the air a patina of dense, dark exhaust. Parisian
cafe tables now shared blinking computers with ashtrays and tiny
phone screens with steaming espresso cups. The metro rumbled
under the streets like a caged beast, endlessly searching the
labyrinthine tunnels for a way out. As she rode the snaking animal
beneath the city, she thought of the street woman in San Francisco
who had taken her money and read her past. She'd described it as
perfectly as the painter had portrayed it, the Abbey on the lake with
cobblestone roads and stone walls, then and now.

After a restless night at her timeworn hotel, she brushed fresh
morning croissant crumbs off her chest from the boulangerie on the
corner. Crossing the city again to the Gare du Nord, she caught a
train for the rainy countryside she barely remembered, watching the
gritty, modern suburbs roll past her window as the train listed gently.

From the train station, she caught a cab and tried to relax as they
ambled past forgotten villages still sleepy in their morning rituals
and country life. But as she got closer, a long shiver waved through
her, a lifetime of anticipation she hadn't understood. They drove
through the old, stone gate entrance toward the Abbey, once a
forbidden shelter of monks’ quarters, now an upscale restaurant
and hotel. She paid the driver and stepped out of the taxi into the
esoteric world of the painting, the world of her past.

The woman in San Francisco said he would be waiting for her but
now, as she stood in the middle of the painting, doubt stabbed at
her. With her first step into the place she had only recently
remembered and dreamed of, she wondered how she could have
traveled so far and believed so entirely. She put a hand to her
mouth as she stood in the driveway, uncertain which way to walk.
Toward the arbor or the church ruins? The lake or the hotel? If he
was here, where would she find him? And if he wasn’t, where would
she wait, either for him or for her senses to return?

A quick, new synapse, a tiny essence of linkage finally gave her
movement. She couldn't face the arbor yet so faltered toward the
hotel’s entry, her legs barely carrying her, energy a thing of the
past. She moved beyond the front desk toward the stairway leading
to the guest rooms, the very place he and the other monks had
once tread, walls now covered with pastel-painted damsels in
flowing attire.

“Two for lunch, Madame?” The maitre’d tried to lead her back from
the stairs with his voice.

She looked to her left and saw a cavernous room with overstuffed
chairs and a glowing fireplace. The room that once served as the
monks’ library now served dessert after lunch.

“May I sit here while...I wait for someone?” she asked, nearly

Bien sur. Do you have a reservation?” He looked at his list.

“No, I...I’ll just be waiting here.” She moved slowly into the room she
had secretly entered when she’d waited for him then. She could see
the stone arbor out the window, sitting as she sat now. Alone. The
waiters checked on her periodically, trying not to look sad for her.
They brought her coffee, then a torte, finally a small glass of
cognac. The hours dragged on just, she realized now, as the years
and centuries had without him. And now finally, darkness began to

A new waiter approached, working to clear the detritus of her
loneliness. She looked into his face as his eyes rested on hers and
her heart buckled in a breathless moment. In silky brown eyes, she
saw caverns of years past like echoes down a long corridor. He
froze momentarily, brows furrowing as if trying to place her. He
didn’t recognize her yet, but...he would. He would.

Kirsten Steen is a writer and massage therapist living in the Pacific
Northwest, sharing time between Oregon, Paris and Greece. She’s been a
waitress, bartender, researcher, new construction inspector, Special Ed sub
and real estate agent and has spent most of that time on a treasure hunt for
natural outdoor beauty and stunning language. She can be found online at
www.writeonthyme.blogspot.com, Facebook and Twitter.