A burn, the size of a bankcard but the shape of Russia, now marks my inner wrist. The satin-smooth, milky-white skin is no more. Replaced with a scar. A sign of fallibility. A mark of life. These marks start becoming permanent. It’s not dirt, it won’t wash off. It’s not a scratch, it won’t heal over. It’s not a tan, it won’t fade away. Like the first hints of wrinkles that take longer to uncrease in the morning; from here on in the unblemished perfection of youth is no more.
Vanity is a strange beast. I shouldn’t be concerning myself with such a frivolity. Especially not as it happened in Paris. It’s a permanent reminder of the life I had, and loved, in the luminous city. Like a tattoo, but more original than the tricolour flag and more cryptic than the Eiffel Tower. I also consider it to be my brand of stupidity. I should have known better than to burn myself with hot oil while cooking. According to my brand, however, my very own scarlet letter, I did not. Yet if that is the only mark I carry, the only burden I bear upon leaving my Parisienne life behind, then I have gotten off lightly. For my heart, my heart remains unscathed. The city of love captured my attention, she even attracted my affection. Mais mon coeur, il est encore mein.
