Reprise: A Story of Reincarnated Love
folder
Romance › General
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
15
Views:
2,244
Reviews:
16
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Romance › General
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
15
Views:
2,244
Reviews:
16
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.
Dominique meets Angelo LaRussa
*** 5 May 2007 2pm – Paris , France ***
The small green space near the Quai de l’Hôtel de Ville was bustling with tourists and business people, all seemingly in a great hurry. Dominique had come down on a job interview for her summer internship - but had been told that the gentleman she was to meet with had to postpone - could she come back at three? Of course she had said yes, though that meant she would be late to work, but what else could she do?
Careful acquisitions at consignment shops had accumulated into a small, respectable wardrobe that she hoped would give her an air of professionalism - though she would settle for not looking like she had spent the last eight years of her life working in a bar and living in a series of rat infested tenements that fringed the Quartier Pigalle and Place de Clichy. However, it was hard to imagine that that side of Paris even existed down here, with the rich architecture and clean streets. The tour buses dropped people off and picked them up, all of them sporting large bags and cameras and wearing strange looking attire.
She was seated on the end of a long bench in the bright spring sun, her small pocketbook on her lap beneath her folded hands. She had been here for maybe half an hour, watching the lovers hold hands, kiss, and cuddle in public, and children run from overexcited mamas. A pair of teenagers was trying to sell tickets to a show that night, rudely interposing themselves on the small groups. Cars and mopeds wove around the buses; everyone seemed in such a great hurry.
Dominique did not look up when the middle-aged man replaced the older couple that had been sharing the bench with her. “Would you like a portrait?” He asked her, drawing her attention more because he spoke in English than because he spoke at all. His thinning long hair was pulled back into a graying ponytail, but it was the portable easel he was carrying that had her frowning at him.
“Pardonnez-moi?” she asked reflexively, and then shook her head, switching to English, “No, thank you.”
But he did not move on. Instead, when she shot him a glance a few seconds later he was looking at her as if memorizing her features to draw her later. Annoyed, she pouted, “Do we know each other?”
His eyes grew round for the briefest of seconds and then he seemed to recover himself, chuckling, “No, we’ve never met, but we should,” he shifted the portable easel so that he could offer her his hand, “Angelo LaRussa. I work in that that gallery just over there.” His eyes indicated behind her vaguely and she obligingly turned to look.
A tour bus blotted out the scenery, so she turned back, “I am afraid your name is unfamiliar to me.” She sounded as if she were afraid he would be deeply affronted.
He chuckled at her and plucked her hand up anyway. “Good! Then I have gotten to you before the rumor mongers.” He tried to kiss her fingers but she gently withdrew her hand, not taking her eyes off of him, clearly caught between running away and wishing she did not have to.
“Please,” he interjected quickly. “I promise, I am not going to hurt you. I am simply glad to make your acquaintance.” When her look did not become less wary, he added, “What harm could I do you here in such a crowded place?” Already a woman had flopped down on his other side, talking to another woman in rapid German.
Dominique immediately felt foolish. “I’m sorry, you are right,” she murmured, cutting herself off before reminding him of all the strange men in Paris for fear of insulting him further. “I am Dominique Vassar. I am waiting here to interview for an internship at the Banque Populaire.” It was her turn to give a vague nod, though he obviously knew where she meant without looking.
He leaned back, elbow jutting over the back of the bench as he sat half facing her. Somehow that news had seemed to perplex him, and there was an uncomfortable silence. Dominique looked at her nails.
“You are in school then,” LaRussa stated, rubbing his stubbly chin as if reevaluating her.
Nodding, Dominique told him a bit about her studies and the position she was interning for, concluding with a little shrug, “My appointment was put off until three, so… I wait.”
LaRussa settled back and propped the lap easel on his lap, bracing it with his right hand as he drew the scenery before them with his left. It was clear he had done a great deal of sketching before.
Beside him, Dominique slumped down on the bench, her hair hanging over the back and her legs crossed at the ankles as she tried not to watch him. His movements were so confident, as if he thought his pencil dare not betray him. Nearly fifteen minutes went by before she murmured, “You make it look so easy.” She had slipped back into French.
With an amused sideways glance he chuckled as if reminding himself that she had no idea who he was. “Thank you, though I am sure you have seen others sketch.” He was fishing, trying to find out the artist of LeBeque’s portrait.
Dominique shrugged, squirming to sit more upright. “My flatmate on occasion; but nothing like this. I suppose though I have never really paid attention.”
Even under her now blatant scrutiny his movements were sure. He gave her another sidelong look, as if weighing her. Dominique did not volunteer any further information, but seeming quite content to sit and watch him if he was inclined to allow it.
He began talking then, telling her a bit about his work as a way to segue to bring up LeBeque, certain that that would get a reaction. When it did not, he frowned. Sensing that she had somehow displeased him, she told him. “I should go. It was a pleasure talking to you, monsieur.” Adjusting the thin chain of her pocketbook over her shoulder, she had come to her feet.
“Mademoiselle Vasser,” he called her back, though he then seemed not to know what to say, settling for, “Good luck at your interview.”
“Merci,” she replied with a small, self-conscious smile, backing away from him a few steps before turning to walk away at a pace only slightly slower than a jog.
“That dog,” LaRussa smirked, watching the young woman until she disappeared into the crowd. “That sneaky little dog,” he repeated without heat. “Ah, LeBeque, I have caught you out!” And with a chuckle he trotted off to make sport of his young colleague.
The small green space near the Quai de l’Hôtel de Ville was bustling with tourists and business people, all seemingly in a great hurry. Dominique had come down on a job interview for her summer internship - but had been told that the gentleman she was to meet with had to postpone - could she come back at three? Of course she had said yes, though that meant she would be late to work, but what else could she do?
Careful acquisitions at consignment shops had accumulated into a small, respectable wardrobe that she hoped would give her an air of professionalism - though she would settle for not looking like she had spent the last eight years of her life working in a bar and living in a series of rat infested tenements that fringed the Quartier Pigalle and Place de Clichy. However, it was hard to imagine that that side of Paris even existed down here, with the rich architecture and clean streets. The tour buses dropped people off and picked them up, all of them sporting large bags and cameras and wearing strange looking attire.
She was seated on the end of a long bench in the bright spring sun, her small pocketbook on her lap beneath her folded hands. She had been here for maybe half an hour, watching the lovers hold hands, kiss, and cuddle in public, and children run from overexcited mamas. A pair of teenagers was trying to sell tickets to a show that night, rudely interposing themselves on the small groups. Cars and mopeds wove around the buses; everyone seemed in such a great hurry.
Dominique did not look up when the middle-aged man replaced the older couple that had been sharing the bench with her. “Would you like a portrait?” He asked her, drawing her attention more because he spoke in English than because he spoke at all. His thinning long hair was pulled back into a graying ponytail, but it was the portable easel he was carrying that had her frowning at him.
“Pardonnez-moi?” she asked reflexively, and then shook her head, switching to English, “No, thank you.”
But he did not move on. Instead, when she shot him a glance a few seconds later he was looking at her as if memorizing her features to draw her later. Annoyed, she pouted, “Do we know each other?”
His eyes grew round for the briefest of seconds and then he seemed to recover himself, chuckling, “No, we’ve never met, but we should,” he shifted the portable easel so that he could offer her his hand, “Angelo LaRussa. I work in that that gallery just over there.” His eyes indicated behind her vaguely and she obligingly turned to look.
A tour bus blotted out the scenery, so she turned back, “I am afraid your name is unfamiliar to me.” She sounded as if she were afraid he would be deeply affronted.
He chuckled at her and plucked her hand up anyway. “Good! Then I have gotten to you before the rumor mongers.” He tried to kiss her fingers but she gently withdrew her hand, not taking her eyes off of him, clearly caught between running away and wishing she did not have to.
“Please,” he interjected quickly. “I promise, I am not going to hurt you. I am simply glad to make your acquaintance.” When her look did not become less wary, he added, “What harm could I do you here in such a crowded place?” Already a woman had flopped down on his other side, talking to another woman in rapid German.
Dominique immediately felt foolish. “I’m sorry, you are right,” she murmured, cutting herself off before reminding him of all the strange men in Paris for fear of insulting him further. “I am Dominique Vassar. I am waiting here to interview for an internship at the Banque Populaire.” It was her turn to give a vague nod, though he obviously knew where she meant without looking.
He leaned back, elbow jutting over the back of the bench as he sat half facing her. Somehow that news had seemed to perplex him, and there was an uncomfortable silence. Dominique looked at her nails.
“You are in school then,” LaRussa stated, rubbing his stubbly chin as if reevaluating her.
Nodding, Dominique told him a bit about her studies and the position she was interning for, concluding with a little shrug, “My appointment was put off until three, so… I wait.”
LaRussa settled back and propped the lap easel on his lap, bracing it with his right hand as he drew the scenery before them with his left. It was clear he had done a great deal of sketching before.
Beside him, Dominique slumped down on the bench, her hair hanging over the back and her legs crossed at the ankles as she tried not to watch him. His movements were so confident, as if he thought his pencil dare not betray him. Nearly fifteen minutes went by before she murmured, “You make it look so easy.” She had slipped back into French.
With an amused sideways glance he chuckled as if reminding himself that she had no idea who he was. “Thank you, though I am sure you have seen others sketch.” He was fishing, trying to find out the artist of LeBeque’s portrait.
Dominique shrugged, squirming to sit more upright. “My flatmate on occasion; but nothing like this. I suppose though I have never really paid attention.”
Even under her now blatant scrutiny his movements were sure. He gave her another sidelong look, as if weighing her. Dominique did not volunteer any further information, but seeming quite content to sit and watch him if he was inclined to allow it.
He began talking then, telling her a bit about his work as a way to segue to bring up LeBeque, certain that that would get a reaction. When it did not, he frowned. Sensing that she had somehow displeased him, she told him. “I should go. It was a pleasure talking to you, monsieur.” Adjusting the thin chain of her pocketbook over her shoulder, she had come to her feet.
“Mademoiselle Vasser,” he called her back, though he then seemed not to know what to say, settling for, “Good luck at your interview.”
“Merci,” she replied with a small, self-conscious smile, backing away from him a few steps before turning to walk away at a pace only slightly slower than a jog.
“That dog,” LaRussa smirked, watching the young woman until she disappeared into the crowd. “That sneaky little dog,” he repeated without heat. “Ah, LeBeque, I have caught you out!” And with a chuckle he trotted off to make sport of his young colleague.