Gordon Flanders is Anyone’s Ghost, and submitted the following nouns to find love in the Louvre. I took some creative liberties with this one.
An African wild horse with black-and-white stripes and an erect mane.
An adult human male, usually with a dick and testicles.
If you have any requests, please leave 2 nouns and a location in the comments and a personalized love story will be posted with a link back to your blog in the next 7 days.
They called her “The Zebra”. Her slender body bore all eyes on her with forced bravado, and she corrected her insecurities by tenderly tugging at the silk sheets that delicately mounted her breasts and thighs. She was art, and the public claimed they appreciated her. As art, maybe, but not as a woman. They called her The Zebra because at birth her skin couldn’t decide what color it wanted to be. Blotches of dark and light contrasted with extreme reds and pinks. She was not normal, but society would rather whisper that behind her back than recognize that it’s okay. Right now people flocked to appreciate what wasn’t normal, but two years ago they bullied and hated her for it. Two years from now they might do the same. She was a trend – an experience. The Louvre had scored her as an exhibit and I’m sure she felt honored. She would remember this for the rest of her life and remind herself that she did something good for the world. Changed some minds. Inspired some people who suffered from the same conditions. But all she did was remind people that they’re lucky to be normal. They can gawk and “appreciate” and then go home, back to their normal lives. The Zebra is a walking art exhibit everywhere she goes, and she will be watched and judged – for good or bad – for the rest of her life.
I entered the museum and didn’t see The Zebra. I only saw Peyton Charlotte Damsey, the girl I grew up next door to, stripping for the public in the one of the most well regarded museums of the world. When she saw me, her bright blue eyes widened with shock and as she gasped her sheet slipped from her fingers and her body was naked. I had seen it all before, I didn’t need to gasp like the others. I didn’t need to take pictures or whisper to my neighboring audience members. I only stepped over the velvet red stanchion ropes and grabbed her by the wrist.
“Monsieur!” The guards yelled. They said more in French but I didn’t understand it.
“What are you doing?” Peyton whispered, outraged, as she tried to cover herself with her free hand.
“Let’s go.” I said, and I pulled her off the podium.
“Let go of me.” She tugged and tore her hand free of my grip.
“Pey,” I bit me lip, turning to her fiercely.
“You need to leave.” Her eyes were wet with anger. Her bottom lip trembled. The same one I’ve bitten. The same one I’ve kissed.
“Please.” I pleaded. But it was too late. The guards rammed into me and in a flurry of bodies she disappeared from sight.
It all happened so fast. I guess now that I didn’t need to protect her anymore suddenly I seemed like the one attacking her. Old habits die hard, I guess, and I thought these things all the way to jail and while I was waiting in the cell for my bail I still thought them. She arrived in a long coat with a hat angled down like a true Parisian. The guards weren’t with her, which I thought was weird. Maybe she wasn’t here to bail me out.
“David.” She said. Her face was skewed in a look of sympathy I wasn’t familiar with. It wasn’t the kind she had shown her dying pet dog once upon a time. This was a demeaning look.
“I just wanted to save you.” I said.
“It’s different now.” She scolded. “People are different.”
People are never different. She believes that because she’s different.
“You need to leave me alone, David, if you can’t accept what I’m doing.”
I didn’t say anything. I had practiced this conversation all day long but it hadn’t gone like this in my head.
“Please.” She continued. “Tell me you won’t follow me again.”
“I’ve never lied to you, Peyton.” I stopped looking at her.
She sighed, and from my peripheral I saw she looked away too. Both of us just looking at the same wall.
“I’m sorry, then.” She said. “Hopefully they don’t keep you too long.”
She left, the clicking of her heels echoing through the halls. I wanted to yell fuck you after her, but I couldn’t curse at her. Never had. So instead I whispered with my breath into the stone wall. “I love you, Pey.”