Claude and Geneva

Geneva came to the walking bridge by the park ,as she always did on Christmas Eve. Claude always said he’d be back for her someday. Their promise was that on Christmas Eve they would find each other again where they had met so many years ago.

It was an art fair. All of them were starving artists at best. Geneva kept a modest flat in the city, and worked as a librarian’s helper. She had always loved the written word. Her father, of course, had told her nothing would come of it. She had love interests fade and out of her life, but they quickly tired of her aspirations as a poet. Claude was different. He was a painter. He created some of the most beautiful oil colors that Geneva had ever seen. They inspired her to do more, to put more into her poetry.

It had been five years. Five years she’d spent alone, pining for him. She knew he had most assuredly moved on. He was a beautiful man with a charm that would turn stone into clay. His dark eyes and olive complexion were a magnet for the girls. Geneva had seen it during the summer and fall they spent in the park. Claude always professed his love to her, however. When he was called away for an assignment that winter, he promised to come back for her. He would be back when his career could afford her the luxury he thought she deserved.

In reality, she was a simple girl, and saw nothing especially pleasing in her flowing brown hair, petite frame, and a nose that was larger than she would like. But, Claude had professed that she was the most beautiful person he had ever trapped in canvas.

Then again, Claude never came back. She spent each day alone. She moved on in her vocation as well. She had her own bookstore. It was nothing like the big bookstores, the chains, but her customers loved the atmosphere. It was a cozy place, like being on one’s own couch, and living the tale through one’s own eyes. That was the image she projected, and that is what her customers felt. They felt as though she had welcomed them into her very own home. In a way, it was true. Without Claude, all she had was the printed word. The printed word, and the hope that someday, somehow, she would see him again.

They had parted ways on Christmas Eve, those years ago. He had an assignment, not a lucrative one, but one that, he promised her, would bring him fame someday, and then he would come back for her. She kept a good supply of artist magazines and anthologies on hand in the store, but had never seen his name. She feared the worst for him. It could be a cold world out there for creative minds. She knew that all too well from her own experiences. Shortly after college, it was apparent to her that her poetry would not be widely accepted and that she needed to chose another vocation. Her father was pleased when she gave up what he called her silly dreams and established herself in publishing. The rat race, though, was not for her. When she opened her own bookstore and had local “no name” authors doing book signings, her mother came to every single one, and bought a book to be signed by the author. Her father stayed away. It made Geneva all the more sad, but she kept on. She had faith in the arts. She had faith in her vision. She had faith in Claude. She prayed that he was well, and that he had found his way in this big, uncaring world.

For the fifth year she stood, alone, on the walking bridge where they professed their love for one another, throwing rose petals onto the almost-frozen river and, with each one, saying a prayer for Claude. It was getting dark, and she knew she should be going. The park was a beautiful place during the day, but to be caught here at night was to surely be mugged… or worse. She pulled the last rose petal from the last stem and laid the remains on the bridge railing, as she had before.

As she turned to walk in the direction of her flat, a cloaked figure appeared out of the shadows.

“I’ve been watching you,” a voice said before she was near enough to grasp anything else. Her instinct was to run. Her father said she’d always been afraid of her own shadow. She resisted the urge, simply for that reason.

“Come here,” the voice came from behind her as she walked off the bridge.

“Beg off!” She yelled, trying to be sure of herself.

“My love, I’m with you
No matter where you be
I’m here and waiting
For the time to be with thee”

She knew the words, but the voice was foreign.

“In Winter’s ice
My love, come hither
My love for you
Doth not wither.”

It was a silly poem she wrote in school. It meant nothing to anyone – save the one who had stolen her heart. The words sounded ridiculous to her now, but the she loved the tongue from which they came.

“Claude?” She turned to the cloaked figure, recognizing his features in the light of the one lamp.
“I’ve finally been commissioned by the Prime Minister, My Dear.” He replied. “This is the commission I’ve been waiting for, and the reason I haven’t come back for you. I knew I could do it, and I didn’t want you to think any less of me.”

He hugged her tight, and she pulled her feet off the ground, “Claude! I can’t believe you came back!”

“You doubted me, then?” He jested, putting her down.

“I never doubted you, My Love. Me, maybe, but never you.”

“I need to see this bookstore I’ve read so much about in Paris,” he flanks her face with his hands.

“I’ve made Paris?”

“I never doubted you would.”

Word Count: 1011