She’s rich. Filthy rich. Experience is the world’s most valuable currency. Stories buy her anything, they buy her anyone, they buy her anywhere. She always purchases wisely. She knows who she can pawn and persuade. She knows who regards her tales like counterfeit. She always gives those fools exact change. For the fanciful though, she leaves a gratuity of fiction. Fiction is the sugar-coating of life. Some people have a penchant for bitterness, or the sour tastes of logic, but Celine knows that sugar-coating makes it go down all the better.

-----------

I might be lost for you, darlin’
But that’s nothing worth wanting.
I’m shit with maps and too reckless for directions.

-----------

Watch out for intrigue.
You’ll get an insatiable appetite for it.
Not even an all-you-can-wonder buffet wil satisfy it.
It’s enigma enflambé and it leaves a devilish taste in your mouth.

-----------
“Nice to meet you,” she offers him her hand.
“Yea, this was…” he searches for a word that justifies his arousal but doesn’t undermine his genuine intrigue…“tantalizing.”
“From Tantalus,” she says with eyebrows raised, “He was a mortal son of Zeus, and Greek mythology depicts him as a little prick,” she smirks, “constantly putting the God’s togas in a twist.” She playfully shakes a disapproving finger at him and warns him, “When Tantalus had pulled one prank too many, the Gods punished him by placing him in a clear pool with mouth-watering fruit growing above it, just beyond his reach, so that he would pass his life without satisfaction,” she sighed, “constantly teased with desire.” She leaned forward and kissed the air next to his check making a soft clicking sound in his ear; causing his neck hairs to tinkle slightly. “Thank you for dinner,” her shoulders lifted with an almost cruel shrug, turned and disappeared behind closing elevator doors.

----------

theirrypoignet: How’s Milan?
onpoignt: like a flighty bitch.
to be honest.
theirrypoignet: ah, gone and met another lustful lady thwarted in her attempt to unveil
your absurdly masked personality and has since left a lonely size-6 mark in your bed, have you?
onpoignt: no
actually.
i prefer size-8 imprints, you prick.
theirrypoignet: fine. tell me about the legs of late then.
onpoignt: why do ask this shit, theirry?
theirrypoignet: come on i know your “work” requires you to be very intimate with
women’s thighs and you can at least share some details.
onpoignt: No, contrary to yours and susanne’s belief, any thighs in my life are pleasure
and not business.
theirrypoignet: Ooooooooooooooooh pardon-moi, m.Professional
theirrypoignet: what is your “business” again? or perhaps you don’t have enough career
insurance to clarify that for your dear brother and sister.
onpoignt: my deep condolences that your career prevents you from having any lovely
legs to bother with at all. You’re still sharing your office with that gent from
Texas?
theirrypoignet: oh piss off.
onpoignt: aw. it wouldn’t be the holidays with out some sibling affection.
Happy Easter.
theirrypoignet: you too, Luc.
What can I help you with?
I know you only talk to us when you need something
Hahah
onpoignt: way to kill the moment
theirrypoignet: way to skirt the topic


------


Sitting at a park bench, Luc opened his little tin box. He removed a rubber band from a stack of credit cards and shuffled through them sqinting his eyes and shaking his head slightly at each of the names: Lauren Poignt, Gianluca dal Ponte, Owen Pound, Clive Poignt, Lukas Porter, Claude Parke, L. Pointer, Luis di Ponte.

----
Luc likes his room in Tokyo. It has good ratios. It’s almost a perfect square.

---

An interesting side note: Among the hundred of unfinished snippets about Luc Poignet and his hijinx, Milan is mentioned over a dozen times all of which were written before I even thought about living there. Curious, no?

I hate this city, Luc thought, there aren't any buildings tall enough to commit suicide off of.

During college Luc kept a Magic 8-ball on his toilet tank. The gesture of shaking it knowing that only one, unelaborated, advice-free reply was going to appear in his hands calmed Luc’s mind during its most frantically contemplative moments. When he finished college and left childish pleasures like 8-balls to his past, he continued with the same decion-making strategy, and continued to employ it quite often in bathrooms. He would find two possible solutions to whatever situation he had pickled himself into, and then would count the tiles on the floor, agreeing that if the number was odd, he would proceed with plan one, and if the number was even, plan two. Luc always felt like he was cheating when it came to half tiles. But if he didn’t count the half tiles, it seemed like it would be cutting destiny short. This is why Luc prefers rooms that measure into good ratios.

the first page

Well, fuck. Luc Poignet pinches his bottom lip between his thumb and forefinger while he stares blankly at the floor of Penn Station. There's a pencil in his other hand and a notepad across his lap. A small white tin sits next to him and a green shoulder bag at his feet. As he breathes his eye brows rise and fall like a tide of anxiety against the sea of brown curls. He tips his head to the left and squints his eyes. Then he tilts his head right. Shuts his eyes. Exhales deeply. He lets his lips go and drops his hand on to his lap. Merde, he whispers. Twists the pencil into his hair behind his ear and opens his eyes. The sun slugs thru the revolving doors of the station like a sun-burnt and sleepy fan the evening after a well-liquored sporting event. Ok. He tosses the green bag over his shoulder with a deep sigh of rationale. With the white tin and notepad in his hands he crosses the marble hall of Philadelphia's majestic station and approaches a row of payphones. He stops at one with a McDonald's bag and bottle of Dr.Pepper shoved between the shelf and the phone. He takes the empty bottle and places it two phones to the left. He puts his tin below the phone between the two littered stalls. He draws a mobile phone from his jacket pocket and scans the screen until Henri Duris appears. Luc lifts the receiver and dials several strings of numbers followed by brief pauses before finally glimpsing at the mobile again. He palms the nape of his neck and nods his head slightly with each ring. After the sixth, a raspy and uncertain voice answers.

'Allo?'

'Henri.' Luc knows he will call him Poignet, because to Henri, Luc does not exist, only Poignet and Poignet is an immature and lackadaisical mess with an American accent.

'Poignet?'

'Yes, it's me.'

'C'est deux heures du matin, mon ami, que veux-tu, idiot?'

Luc knows it is 4 am in Paris. Luc knows Henri is sleeping. Luc knows that waking up Henri is dangerously stupid. Luc doesn't care. 'I'm in a spot.'

'Euh…merde, Luc.' Luc had expected him to say Quelle surprise, Luc so he is pleased with this response and smiles.

'I know, but I've got a plan.'

'Well, 'ave you sung yet?'

'No, no… it won't crack for a few another day or so.'

'Et puis?'

'I'm coming to Paris. I'll need you to get a for things…in order for me before I arrive.'

'Ok… well… I can get you a garden, a couple of wrenches and probably track to either LaRouchelle or Cannes.'

Luc bites his lip and runs his palm across his forehead.

'No, I'm gonna need a safe - but not for long - and I'll work on the track, I'm just lilypadding. But I also need some literature, Henri, that's why I called you.'

'Oh, my disaster of a friend…' There is a long pause. 'What kind?'

'Milles mercies, Henri, n'importe quoi… j'arrive demain, ou?'

'Oh, I see, now you speak your tongue… rue Vauvilliers, you disgrace of a Frenchman, and nothing in the area will take your stupid credit cards. So plan a 'ead, eh?'

'Moi? Toujours,' Luc smiles, 'Thank you, again.'

'Oui, oui.. bonne chance, you bastard.'

Luc laughs and the line drops. Fabuleux, he says, and now for the show.
He slides the white tin and notepad into his shoulderbag and crosses the station again. Luc enters a men's clothing store called Vinny's. The store says three words to Luc: Overpriced, instantly gratifying.

celine and luc

Luc is waiting for Flight No.1632 out of Narita Airport, direct flight to Buenos Aires when a woman with florescent blonde hair wore sharp below her chin sits next to him.

"I noticed you in Paris," her eyes are a penetrating shade of hazel, outlined thick with brown and gold eye shadow, "In Oslo, too." She bites her lips, plump in comparison to her thin face; sultry if Luc had one word to describe them. "I followed you to Tokyo. I know you'll be in Buenos Aires next. And I'm planning on following you there too, but I figured it's a long flight and if I told you now, then I would have someone to talk to on the way." Her eyes search his face for a reaction, "I'm Celine."

Luc blinks. He licks his lips and nods his head just slightly several times, "Ok."

"Ok." She replied, almost giddily.

"I'd introduce myself, but imagine you already know my name…." he clinches his teeth. She blushes and he continues, "and probably the toothpaste I use and obviously my preferred airline and…"

"Actually I know every name you've used in the past three years, but I don't which is the real one."

"Ah…" Luc closes one eye and scratches his bald head, "that's both freaky and endearing."

"I guess…"

"Well, you pick"

"What?"

"It's just a name, sweetheart. Identity is entirely different. If there's anything I know, it's that you can't disguise identity with a name. I seem to be me no matter what epithet I try to escape into. Quirks are kinda like grease, no matter how many times you wash your shirt that annoying blot stays there, ya know?"

'Um… grease?"

"Exactly. So dress me in any name you'd like."

Celine looks downward and nervously rubs the silk fabric of her skirt between her fingers. Her brows make an adorable wrinkle down her forehead and she glances left and right, calculating.

"Child, you are stressing me out, for god's sake, just call m-"

"Luc" she interrupts, looking up quickly and seeming to startle herself with her decision.

Taken back, but pleasantly, he agrees, "So it is then," he takes an invisible hat from his head and nods to her, " Luc. Enchanté, mademoiselle. "

A soothing voice chimes over the waiting area in Japanese. "Pardon me," Luc stands up, collecting his things, "I have something to take care of before the plane departs."

"Ok." She seems uninterested. Luc nods and walks towards the men's room.

The woman over the loud speaker then repeats herself in English, We are now boarding all passengers for Flight No. 1632, non-stop to Buenos Aries, remaining passengers please join the que to the left of the gate."

Celine glances towards the men's room in search of Luc, "Sneaky bastard understands Japanese, too," she curses. She stands up and approaches the men's room. As the flight attendant gently makes last calls to board the flight, Celine taps her high heel impatiently on the purplish carpet, expecting each man that exits to be a foot taller and rushing to his gate.


Outside the terminal, Luc purchases a ticket for the Narita Express back into Tokyo. "Shuppatsu wa nanji desuka?" he inquires while collecting his change.

"In 5 minutes, sir, it's best to hurry," the woman replies with a flirtatious bow, impressed by both his accent and bright blue eyes.

"Ah, brilliant, thank you," he winks and dashes down to the platform.