Missy and Mademoiselle.

"Mademoiselle."

Mademoiselle just sat silently in her armchair, staring out the window, then somewhere in my direction, but past me. She was stalling. It was like a word was hanging upon her lips and she was going to say it, wanted to say it, and not wanting to say it at the same time. I would say that it was just a general idea, not specific, fully formed words that she had in mind and it hung there like a dead weight, while she swirled it around in her mouth, deciding when and whether or not to spit it out. The sunshine fell from a window to her right, lightly on her face at an angle and gave the scene before me a cool picture-like quality. Well Mademoiselle sure knows how to place herself. I raised an eyebrow.

Our faces were still, each a perfect mask of inexpression. It was so neutral that I could feel the lack of expression on my face. I felt like I was wearing a plastic mask. That must be how she feels too. Ah, such self-conscious, self-aware people we both are. The smoke from her stick coiled lazily upwards as she draped her hand carelessly over the armrest of her chair.

I knew she would say something when she was ready. She likes to make an entrance mademoiselle does. And when she says it, her words would've been very carefully considered.

Then she smiled. And I felt the crease come to my own face with a relief, feeling my muscles tug themselves into a smile of my own. Finally. My face felt free and looser, not set in that perfect expression of emotionless inexpresison.

I should think Mademoiselle had decided in the end not to say anything at all about it then, judging by her continued lack of words. The atmosphere of something hanging in the air passed because she had decided there was nothing to be said and shattered the suspense. Her body relaxed quite visibly from its rigid contemplative frame and sank more heavily into the cushions of the armchair. These are comfortable armchairs.

I looked away. So why is it then that we even ventured upon this discussion? Or, almost discussion? She had to say it. She had to say something, she had to bring it out. And now that she has, something feels done. Acknowledged and discussed, although no actual lenghty discussion had taken place. It lightens her burden.

I shifted my gaze again. For so long I have been the mediator between Mademoiselle, and Missy. Mademoiselle is cold, cold, cold, steel. She pierces and stabs. She rams straight on, buffeting like the wind. Missy is warm. Soft, liquid. She muffles and wraps around. She is like the tear that slides down your cheek, fluid, still warm.

They need me. They need my balance. They need the balance.

Now silence hung still and heavy in the air. I wanted to open my mouth and say something. Indeed, my muscles ached to move and form words that will come floating out into the air and renew it, replacing the stale silence that now hung there. But somehow, a certain reluctance, the same kind that held Mademoiselle's words moments ago, held mine now. It was a silence I longed to break, but was also reluctant to.

"Sometimes I wonder if we could do without ourselves," Mademoiselle spoke. Shatter. The air felt fresh and clean again and I felt like a weight has been lifted off my chest. Breath came more freely and lightly now. I smiled. A sunny smile. This was more like it. Conversation. No matter about what. Not that stupid, stale silence. Tinkling music of talking. I smiled.

"Now, now. Why do you say that?"

She shrugged. I smiled wider. Shit. I need to think. This takes some thinking. Thinking means silence. I rather jabber on.

I sighed. "Mademoiselle, you and Missy, you both burden yourselves too much. Lighten up." Well, that didn't take too much thinking.

She shrugged again.

"Sometimes I wonder if my family might've had a history of mental illness, somewhere down the line. Occasionally, it jusr gets so... I feel like I'm in real danger of sliding, however remote it is. For the moment, it feels more... possible."

Well that came out eventually.

"Does it matter? You know you're not gonna, you won't. And that you'll forget all about this once something distracts you. It won't feel so pressing to be discussed anymore. That's how it always goes. You pass."

"Yes, I pass." She smiled. "I pass. As I always do. So 'I' am a symptom, yes?"

"Yes Mademoiselle, you are symptom. The state of being you, is a symptom. To yourself, and to other people maybe."

Mademoiselle laughed. Loud and boldly. Missy would be there soon.

True to my word, Missy walked in. I watched her approach. Her walk was soft in a way, every move of her legs was played in almost slow-motion. Her walk acquired an almost fluid, characteristic quality of her. It's her walk. That's how Missy walks. A physical embodiment of her character. She is soft, she is warm, she is... Hot chocolate. Her walk is like hot chocolate. A marshmallow comes to mind. Soft, fluffy. Missy walks soft. I'm thinking too much.

I turned my gaze away resolutely. The reverie was broken. Truth is Missy walks like any other normal person. I am thinking too much. I shook my head slowly. The Madmeoiselle symptom. Then I chuckled.

"Missy you had something to say?" That was me.

Missy just smiled, a gentle smile. It wasn't a sad smile. It wasn't a radiant, happy happy smile. It was just a smile. A Mona Lisa smile. Damn it. I smiled mirthlessly and looked down at my lap.

Silence again. Oh God. Damn it. Ok this was going way out of hand. I am used to them talking. Madmeoiselle with her loud boasts and flambuoyant manner. Her bold words and bolder statements. Her sometimes insightful, sometimes dismissive, sometimes disdainful, sometimes objective jabber as she goes on and on about people. People in general, people she knows. Herself, anything. I am used to her waving about her peacock tail, more colourful than a peacock's and more, much more flashy and... Blinged out. That was Mademoiselle. She was the voice and image of solid, efficient, and material ideals.

Missy on the other hand, I'm used to her soft voice accounting her woes or her sorrows. Pouring it all out to us so we can share and help her left her burden, help her feel better about the world and herself. Or her wailing voice, sharp and forceful, jabbering on and on when she's in a state of wild abandon and hysteria, angry and letting the world know. Not caring. She was explosive, could be. Missy is subjectivity where Madmeoiselle is objectivity. A torrent of water rushing down from the bucket placed above the door and splashing all over the floor. That image comes to mind. I am used to hearing her moan about something or other. Complaining, insecurity, doubt.

But now this silence. This small smile. I was not used to. What is this? Subtlety is not for those two. That is my job. Those two are to be as flambuoyant as ever. To the max. The two extremes. Subtlety is my territory. Now what is this?

What happens when the extreme does not know how to be extreme? What happens when the hurricane feels a pull away from it's nature and does not rage? Madmeoiselle and Missy. They know where they stand. They know they're the extremes and they're supposed to be. What to do when even the two extremes find confusion in being themselves? Then what is sure anymore? Then what is certain?

I remained where I was. But I cannot. Remaining where I am is boring. Neither does this pasture hold any more interest for me. I am bored, I need new sights. I need new incentives and new excitement. New life. So I'm not going to remain where I am in this limbo. It may be a tentative balance between two raging extremes, but so what. It's not a good place to be. There's no more energy and enthusiasm. No life. It serves no one, particularly not me, any purpose. So I'm going where the party is.

"Let's move seats." I declared to the two of them.

We three picked up our bags and abandoned our outpost, heading deeper into the cafe where the chatter picked up and sat down at a new table.

Now this is better, Fresh and new. We ordered new drinks. Expensive new drinks. New smoke curled up comfortably from Mademoiselle's poised hand as she leaned forward, probably about to say something trashy. And conversation flowed.

Madmeoiselle, dismissive, disdainful, haughty, arrogant. Missy, understanding, gentle, forgiving, hesitant. The dynamics fluorished. Laughter abounded. Serious words exchanged. Gossip flew. Judgements hurled without thought of dencency or consideration for the person spoken about. *smiles* It's the good life.