Member-only story
Simone Lucie Ernestine Marie Bertrand de Beauvoir, 9 January 1908–14 April 1986
In an upside down life, her body is both white and beautiful. She paints her body in ochre and azure blue, like the druids used to do. Wode for sure. Peut-etre que. Gallic shrug. Resistance.
Several pots of sticky red wine sunk with water snakes onto her breast. Sore crushed through she were. Nazi soldiers served first. Hand moulded she were. Spoilt. Sees into the life of things, arranges funerals for the occupying forces. Keeps her future ❤ safe. Resistance.
Other talonneurs slouch around the cafe, smoking unfiltered Gauloise cigarettes. It is 1942. Slave labourers from the east build final solutions by the dozen. In her town, blue aprons are de rigueur. Goblin-itinerants, from camps outside the surrounding villages, run down the road to catch her. Catch her, they surely will. She turns herself into blackbird, blackbird disappears during the first hour after dawn. Resistance.
White collar workers do not notice such girls with tight lips and no money. She has nicotine stained fingers and a faint whiff of absinthe, de rigueur in late 1942: a time of slavery, half-formed expectations of bad and worse triumphing over merely good that nobody will believe in times of petty viruses and opulence and obesity. Resistance.
