Chanson du Konallis

She was exquisite.

A Story by EMILY JONES

The go was a plain white che ath. The body bone ath, one long shimmering river of movement; restrained and delicate. The arms reached up, in the mood of the song, and pulled the emotion of the taut melody to her finger tips. The voice, in Gallic tremulo, gave out at once passi on and indiffereno e. Monmartre haunted the room.

-

Mon coeur a do la poino C'est qu'il pense a Paris Au vieus Paris sur Seine.

Konnie watched the singer and listened to the words. Sho translated effortlessly in her mind: "When my heart is in pain Paris..." Paris indoed. Men had made Paris a woman in the mind. Indeed. She fingered her drink, the narrow frosted glass with a puff of fizz orowning it and the cherry floating atop. The cherry The cherry looked like her nails; red and gleaming oven in the dark room. "It's because of Paris, Old Paris on the Seine." Paris the woman. She lifted her glass and drank the coldness of the co cktail. Paul was all but gone. The thing he had for the se synthetic chanteuses. It was all he ever needed; one night like this in an intimate club with some Ameri oan girl up there singing in one of those cultivated French singing voices and accents. Thon, he was set for months, They moved him. She did not look at him. She knew how he looked. His eyes rather full of life at the moment, his lips moist and full of pleasure. His hand, fine ly manicured and beautiful, lying perhaps on the white cloth of the table, toying no doubt with a mixing stick. Who n they got home, he would speak French to her until he went to sleep.

B

M'a donne les plus grandes joies Et vers lui je reviens sans cesse C'es l'ami que l'on n'oublie pas...