Soir Bleu

The glow of the paper lanterns reminds him of home. He missed the dirty streets, the scent of baking bread in the air. The bitter taste of alcohol penetrates his tongue, each drink easier than the last. It was a long night at work, the screams of little children still rang in his ears. A smile crept upon his bright, painted lips. So often he forgot what he did it for. The children. They were the ones that brought him the most happiness. He felt so out of place in the company of men- with their gruff voices and rowdy jokes. A wave of disgust came over him. He was alone in this world. The heart of a child beat inside of his broadened chest. Tomorrow he could live his dream again, his pounding headache going away with each child's joyful giggle. The thought of coming back to the cafe at night entered his head as he let out an exasperated sigh. He hated the smell of cigarettes. He hated the fowl language that escaped their mouths. His vision grew obscured as he shot up from the table, the subtle clink of silverware shaking from the impact. No one questioned his sudden behavior. They watched him as he stumbled out of the cafe, vodka on his breath.
He looked in the mirror, swiping a meaty hand across his painted face. The real man was revealed behind the clown, as it was every evening. He had to come to terms with himself, staring at the sunken, aging face that peered back at him. It felt inhuman. His hand grazed across the postcard from Paris that he took with him all those years ago. He smiled, thinking of his limber body, riding his rusting bicycle through the square, he would set his straw hat on the cobblestones, performing tricks as he heard francs clinking into it. He felt a sudden pain in his head and was brought back to his dirty apartment, open pots of paint all over his dresser. A yawn escaped him as he stretched his worn joints. He got up and sank into his spring mattress, a loud creak emerging from beneath him. He closed his eyes, dreaming of twinkling paper lanterns.