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?