Cyrano Is Dead (standard:Flash, 233 words)
Author: Cyrano	Added: Dec 15 2008	Views/Reads: 2986/0	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
I cannot tell you more than I did in my first interrogation about my motive for shooting Cyrano.

I cannot tell you more than I did in my first interrogation about my
motive for shooting Cyrano. I did it on a beautiful morning, in a city 
of brilliant people. We first met in Paris; I was wearing a cotton 
skirt with brown and white checks, a hat with ribbons, a silk scarf. 
Yes, I remember exactly. It was in a restaurant. The following day we 
walked in the suburbs. In the afternoon we sided up with the Seine, 
evening with the painters outside the Basilique Sacré-Coeur. We laughed 
and leaned close to one another. The next day he explained that he was 
leaving. A door slammed. A child was waving. I was being abandoned, 
passed over, swallowed up in practicalities. He was no longer a child. 
Reasons, he said. What reasons take a poet out of Paris? 

I became more detached than a beggar, wanting my life back, open to
every road in any weather. He promised me that. I loved his brilliant 
moments of madness; I could go through them all again. I would fall 
again, and again into a heavy sleep on his Cimmerian shores. Our 
encounter was as perfect a sorrow as one could imagine. It was the 
faultless moment to end it. 

I put the pistol to his temple as he slept. My task has been lifted from
me. No longer must I even think about it. 


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