A Tale Of Two Sirens III

The sweet and spicy finale.

The sun is setting on a bright Sunday evening, but the cool breeze is unaware.

We hear footsteps crush falling leaves of withered gold, as two shadows appear beside a boat. A young siren asks the wise sage standing beside her, “How can I live forever?”

He tells her, “Eternal reverence comes in many forms, choose what is best for your temperament.” She thought for a moment. “Could I be on movie screens?”

“Suppose an alarm wakes you up in the morning, as you take a moment to breathe before you meditate and read poetry to summon your character, then you go find the costume department and complete the transformation. Now your mind, body and soul belong to the audiences' fantasy.” The sage replied, while smoothly tracing his beard with a finger.

The siren strokes her chin, deep in thought, mirroring the sage.

She wonders if she could just surrender to a cinematic fantasy, forever merging the legacy of her name with characters controlled by film directors. A moment of silence passes.

“You hesitate, contemplate and doubt you have what it takes.” He says, dismissively.

“I’m worried about losing myself in the character, what if that’s how people see me forever? I have never acted before and I don’t know if I’m good enough.” She says with a sigh.

The sage looks at her quietly, his eyes are so piercing, she feels compelled to fill the silence. “But what about editorials for fashion magazines?” She asks eagerly.

“Imagine waking up in the afternoon, and someone is already there waiting to do your hair, then on your left is a makeup artist enhancing your features with star quality, to the right is a designer with a limited-edition outfit, as well as a playlist of music that gets you in the mood of a sultry, charming video vixen. Then picture your face on magazine covers.”

“Oh... I would love that.”

“Sounds tempting, right?”

“It sounds very tempting and glamorous, but...” Another moment of silence.

“Finish your thought.” The sage says.

“I’m not sure what my boyfriend would think. He still hasn’t forgiven me for the photo I posted and deleted of me wearing a bikini. That photo you took last summer... remember?”

The sage laughed for a few seconds then stopped abruptly.

“The sun doesn’t care about a candle’s glare.” He starts walking towards the boat.

He continues, without turning back, “You’ll see, free will is only free when you’re young and pretty...” The siren gets agitated. “Wait, c’mon. Wait! I’m just a girl. I’m sorry.”

“A vampire never waits. Time is on my side.”

A gust of wind sweeps past the docks. The boat is gone, the immortal one with it. The siren falls to her knees, with tears of regret, because she knew her desires were still unmet.

Monique wakes up in Sofia’s arms, the mystical dream is already fading from her mind, but she remembers the pleasures of last night. Sofia’s tongue passionately entwined with hers.

The steady grip from photographer’s hand tight around her neck. The intense shudder in between her thighs. Each moment spent in sensual abandon in that studio was a thrill.

There was something natural about the way it happened, as if they’d already been lovers in a past life. It was exciting. She looked around, expecting to see him somewhere, but all she could see was Sofia sleeping beside her. Monique frowned, because she knew that some desires were still unmet, and with one day left in Paris, she wonders what’ll happen next.

The photographer’s phone alarm is buzzing again.

His sleepy arm reaches under his pillow to silence the sound. He knew that sound means maids would be soon on their way to his hotel room.

Perhaps it would take... sixteen minutes.

He considers the sight of his clothes spread out on the floor.

A moment later he gets up and grabs the black jeans. Then he thought back to yesterday, remembering the flashing lights, scented perfume, and the beautiful curves in his studio.

The curves that men would soon buy fashion magazines to see. Content creators would buy them too, in search of erotic art to copy and water down for the masses on IG.

“Ah, c’est la vie.” He hums.

As he makes his way to the bathroom... he looks in the mirror, smiles and checks his phone. Three texts from Sofia... two of them are photos of Monique.

One where she’s smiling at the camera and another where she’s asleep, naked.

He recognizes the sheets on Sofia’s bed. Again, he wonders about the meaning of Sofia’s texts. The written message says... “Give us the keys to your apartment <3”

There is a skeptical look of confusion on his face when the maids knock.

A low, husky, female voice says, “Monsieur M.” He quickly unlocks the door, welcomes both maids with a quick nod, then checks Instagram as he tries to stop thinking about Sofia’s messages. There were some new selfies on his feed... which made him snort.

“Savez-vous ce que cela signifie lorsqu’une belle femme publie des selfies en 2025?”

One maid indulges him, “Qu’est-ce que ça veut dire?” She asks while folding sheets.

He smiles, “C’est un appel a l’aide.” After all, if they knew a photographer... then they wouldn’t need try hard selfies on Instagram, they’d be posing glamorously in editorials. Monsieur M considers the influencers with no real influence, then laughs to himself again.

As the maids start sweeping the floor, he offers them cups of coffee, from the machine.

Both decline with a smile.

He puts on a grey robe and says, “Je descends prendre petit déjeuner.”

On his way to the elevator, he has an intrusive memory. Monsieur M remembers the last time he let Sofia into his apartment. One night at her place, instantly became a night at his, which spilled into six weeks of decadence at his home studio. The weeks flew by.

It was a two-bedroom apartment, an artist’s loft and he had a new bed brought in for the guest room... Sofia decorated it with candles, crystals, dark curtains, and a Persian rug.

But that wasn’t where Sofia slept, she preferred Monsieur M’s bed.

Each week Sofia would invite more friends over for house parties. Most of her friends had tattoos, piercings and bawdy jokes with dark humor. Monsieur M remembered... the spontaneous adventures... they would roam the nightlife district in search of something words could never describe. Then these night owls would crash in the guest room. Six weeks of nightclubs, after hours and after parties. He found some of those nights amusing, like the time when he could overhear a group of ears at his bedroom one night with Sofia.

Eavesdropping on their S&M tryst. Later that night... there was a steamy menage a trois.

There might have been another, but he realized... many of her friends were drug addicts. While Monsieur M didn’t judge, since he used to smoke cigarettes after sex, and even a few cigars that felt more rewarding... than a couple cold Christmas holidays in his youth.

Plus, he regularly drank green tea with bourbon whiskey... and during one wild night in Amsterdam... he tried a backwood blunt... it made him more sensitive to light when he took pictures in the red light district and... inspired a dreamy cinematic editing style that he still used occasionally for editorial photoshoots. Unfortunately, those weren’t the kinds of drugs... he found in his bathroom after all those house parties. It was harder stuff...

An appetite for art keeps the heart smart

He kicked everybody out on a Wednesday evening, including Sofia.

He spent the night mopping and sweeping. The following night his apartment flooded, water suddenly came rushing out of the bathroom... soaking the wooden floors, and eroding the walls like soggy biscuits, he checked into a hotel when remodeling began.

The sun was shining on his twentieth breakfast at the same hotel.

He continued working with Sofia like nothing happened, even their colleagues and mutual friends just assumed they had made up. As he cut into the baguette, his phone rings.

There’s no caller ID... curiosity inspires him to pick it up.

A sultry voice says, “Have you forgotten me already, cherie?”

He instantly recognizes the voice, even though they’re putting on an accent because it was an obvious imitation of a Parisian accent. The kind tourists do in Cannes, “Who is this?”

“C’est moi.”

“Speak English, it’s your mother tongue.”

“Well actually, it’s my second language.”

“If you tell me who you are, maybe I’ll teach you a third, with the right accent.”

The voice giggled. “So, you really don’t remember me?” Monsieur M ends the call and continues spreading butter on his sliced bread. Boredom never mixes well with hunger.

His phone rings again, this time it’s Sofia.

“Did you know Monique is a painter?” She says, incredulously. Monsieur M smiles, he didn’t know that about Monique, but he knew... she would encourage Sofia to call after her guessing game failed to capture his attention. “Amazing.” He says, then sips a cup of jasmine matcha. There is a pause. “So, did you see my texts?” Sofia asks.

Monsieur M thought about hanging up to finish breakfast in peace, but Sofia was determined. “We could change the game... sell covers by making modelling art again.”

“I’m listening.” He replies as he gets up and returns to the elevator.

“This isn’t the 90s anymore, models are getting out of bed for far less than 10 grand. Instagram has made anyone think they could model. So many people think they can do what I do and because of it the market is overpopulated with content from corny amateurs, the economy is in shambles, even still... I work hard to be the shit, and what do I get for it?”

“The client said your cheque should be in the mail in thirty days, but didn’t I tell you to get into acting? Let’s make a demo reel so you can start auditioning for the big screen. You should be at the Cannes film festival, walking red carpets, smiling and accepting awards.”

“Yes! It’s time to do something more. I’m tired of people thinking I’m just a party girl, but I’m not ready to become an actress yet. You know... I have to get sober for that and I still want more covers—we have this idea of posing with a portrait of me. Monique will paint it.”

Sofia had the belief that working in fashion, meant doing hard drugs. She had tried to explain this to Monsieur M on that Wednesday evening, but he disagreed with that idea.

The maids had done great work in his hotel room, as always.

“Tres bien. But what does that have to do with my apartment?”

“We could take the pictures there. Monique has never been you know. Don’t you think she deserves to see your home studio... after how nice she was to you last night?”

“My apartment is getting remodeled. I’m staying somewhere else.”

“Monique doesn’t have that much time before her flight back to Toronto.”

“I’m staying somewhere else.”

“Pute! You can’t keep kissing girls, lying and making them cry.”

“I’m at a hotel.”

“Which hotel?”

Monsieur M looked at the freshly made bed. Could it fit three? The one at home could.

Before the flood

Monsieur M gave Sofia the address, then put on the TV.

Sure enough, a feeling of excitement rose in his chest. Part of this feeling was absorbed from the film he was watching, another part comes from the anticipation of another rendezvous with Sofia and Monique. The two sirens from Canada with big dreams.