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Paris in August <\/strong><\/p>\n \u2018You\u2019re a whore!\u2019 <\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n Martin Redfern<\/strong> lives and works in Edinburgh. A publisher by occupation, he also writes short stories and poetry. \u00a0Martin’s work has recently appeared in The Puffin Review, Ink, Sweat and Tears<\/em> and Obsessed with Pipework.<\/em> Paris in August \u2018You\u2019re a whore!\u2019 Your voice resonates through the stillness. \u00a0I stare into your apartment. \u00a0You\u2019re facing to the right by the aspidistra; she\u2019s in profile directly opposite you. \u00a0The slender windows mirror my own. \u00a0They\u2019re thrown wide-open. \u00a0Three floors below it\u2019s just another side street. Her eyes widen; she […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":4,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[7],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-6030","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-prose-poetry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6030","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/4"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=6030"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6030\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":6031,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6030\/revisions\/6031"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=6030"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=6030"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=6030"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nYour voice resonates through the stillness. \u00a0I stare into your apartment. \u00a0You\u2019re facing to the right by the aspidistra; she\u2019s in profile directly opposite you. \u00a0The slender windows mirror my own. \u00a0They\u2019re thrown wide-open. \u00a0Three floors below it\u2019s just another side street.
\nHer eyes widen; she backs away from you, \u2018I don\u2019t understand. \u00a0Why are you speaking to me like this? \u00a0You\u2019re not making sense.\u2019
\nIt\u2019s almost noon. The sun advances along the tarmac from the direction of Rue Saint-Paul. \u00a0It soaks into the weathered stone and fingers paintwork that curls to expose the bareness beneath. \u00a0\u00a0Soon there\u2019ll be nowhere to hide. \u00a0The nearby church clock strikes. \u00a0The woman from the boulangerie winds down an awning, shades her eyes against the cloudless sky and, as she often does, mops her brow. \u00a0The street is deserted.
\nYou stand there, in the shade to one side of the window. \u00a0The sun \u2013 confident now – inches across the parquet in your direction. \u00a0Harsh rays occupy each corner in turn, fade a Miro print, then surround a Wassily chair until they possess the entire room. \u00a0Your forehead starts to glisten with sweat; the heat tightening around your throat. \u00a0A vase contains white lilies that submit to the hot air.
\nThese mid-summer shadows can\u2019t hide you. \u00a0The modest window box, which you water every evening, reaches to your hips. You stare at her, stock-still. Your accent American, your face younger than your expression.
\nShe falters, then frustration spills out, \u2018You\u2019ve changed – since we arrived in Paris. \u00a0What\u2019s happening to you?\u2019
\nYour response is measured, each word accentuated, \u2018I said: you are no more than a fucking whore!\u2019
\nThe sun slashes across you, burning your skin, heating your blood. \u00a0Roused, you grab her hair and raise your hand ready to strike. \u00a0She cowers, an arm shielding her cheek, just in time to block your blow. \u00a0Then carefully you scoop her up and begin to embrace her.
\nShe looks up at you, and I hear her laugh. \u00a0Over her shoulder you turn to face me. \u00a0You squint out of the window and across the street. \u00a0For a moment we lock eyes. \u00a0You smirk and then, not quite casually, slam the shutters closed, eradicating the sun.
\nI roll a glass of iced water across my forehead, and step back from the window.<\/p>\n
\n <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"