Sleeping In
Christine Fadden


Lucien was asking me why I was such a flirt. Why was I always flirting? I shouldn’t flirt.

“They’re my people,” I said. “Americans know American flirting rules.”

“You aren’t in America rules anymore.”

“Jersey guys get me.”

“I got you, Wife.”

We were trying to remember where we’d parked the car and were walking Place de Vosges, by the art galleries. A woman with her nose up her ear and her teeth in her eyelashes grasped a broken champagne flute. Bubbly trickled down her wrists. In another painting, girls with Silly String hair, wearing Battleship patterned dresses, licked ice cream cones etched with pornographic slogans.

I assumed Lucien was behind me.

Oh.

The night.

Somewhere between clubbing and home, a crane had gouged out a building.

I hiked up my skirt and climbed the security fence.

A shell of centuries surrounded me. There were no floors, no ceilings. I thought of our apartment, which shared a courtyard with a boulangerie that woke me every morning at 4:00 to the smell of chocolate and flour.

I touched torn-sky-blue wallpaper flecked with rose buds and slid my back down a wall. Staircases yanked from overhead formed Escher outlines in plaster.



Christine Fadden’s work appears or is forthcoming in numerous journals and magazines, including Sou’wester, PANK, and Spork. She has been awarded fellowships at the Kimmel Harding Nelson Center for the Arts, the Jentel Artist Residency Program, and the Brush Creek Foundation for the Arts.




Art by Ashley Inguanta