He Melted Us

Chapter 1Wednesday, May 12, 2010 Delron Chastain was alone on Pont des Arts. The light drizzle made it hard to see over to the cupola of Institut de France. Behind him the lamps outside of the Louvre only gave a dull glow. But it didn’t matter—none of it mattered. The metal railing dug into his palm as tiny water droplets coated the back of his hand. He couldn’t look down, couldn’t force himself to take in the empty grate on the side of the bridge one more time. Below, the Seine’s water ran black and cold. Delron looked at it whirling and rippling. He could almost feel it swallowing him, even as he stood firmly on the wooden deck on the bridge. It’s gone—our lock is gone. Delron couldn’t breathe. A group of young men staggered over the otherwise deserted bridge. They were too busy talking and joking to notice him. How can anyone joke at a moment like this? Once they’d passed, he sat down on one of the benches. The wet seat soaked his trousers, but he didn’t care. He had known, or assumed, but seeing it with his own eyes made the reality hit home. Our relationship is over. A part of him had still hoped. They’d said on the radio that about two thousand locks were missing, a few dozen had been left untouched. He’d hoped theirs would be one of those few. It wasn’t. He remembered the day they’d stood there two years ago. The weather had been warm, the sun reflecting off the water below them, and Phillipe had been absolutely gorgeous. His short dark hair had come to life in the sunshine, and his warm brown eyes had held so much affection, Delron felt a warmth fill him every time he thought about it. Delron had always thought Phillipe was handsome—handsome in an ordinary way. He didn’t look like a model; he looked real, and Del wanted a real man. That day he had thought Phillipe was the most beautiful creature on this Earth. They’d been standing there, holding hands—not giving a damn about what people would think. And they’d attached their lock to the bridge. Both of them had held on to the lock as they attached it, their hands touching as Delron pushed down the shackle and Phillipe pulled out the key. Instead of throwing it into the Seine like Del had wanted to, Phillipe had attached it to his other keys. Delron had never been happier. It was like everything had finally fallen into place. That lock—it meant everything. As long as their lock hung on the bridge, he knew they would be all right. It was the closest they’d ever come to marriage—the lock was their wedding ring, their promise to themselves and the world that they would be together for eternity. And now? He looked around at the sad-looking grate; the occasional lock decorating the ugly metal grid only made it worse. It’s gone. It’s over. Delron might just as well go back home, pack his things, and move out of the flat they’d shared for the last five years. No lock, no relationship—he had no say in this. Someone had stolen his happiness. * * * * Phillipe Lebeau turned over in the bed. He hated waking to an empty space next to him. He should’ve known the news about the padlocks being stolen would upset Delron. He should’ve known he would have a hard time sleeping. It took so little to upset him; he didn’t cope well with change, and Phillipe should’ve known. After all these years, he should’ve learned things he thought nothing about would render Del sleepless and worried. He flung off the cover. Should I go see if Del is sitting on the balcony, smoking? He often did when something was bothering him. Phillipe squinted towards their bedroom window. It was still dark outside. He let out a sigh and prepared to get up, but the bed was too soft, the temperature just right. Delron will be back soon; no one wants to sit outside for long when they can lie in bed. He closed his eyes and let the soft sound of raindrops on the window ledge lull him to sleep. Sometime later, he woke. He thought he heard the front door close but must have imagined it; it must’ve been the balcony door. When Delron crawled back into bed, Phillipe pulled him in and held him close. It was impossible to miss the dampness in his hair and the chilled skin, but Phillipe didn’t have the energy to talk right now. It’s just a lock—doesn’t mean anything.