M – Your Story By Me

It was the day before his last birthday. He landed at Berlin Airport, moving with the crowd, dragging his black luggage full of black clothes. The metallic echo of his toe plates against the jet bridge floor marked each step.
Nearby, a man with prominent veins beneath his eyes, wearing a mustard beanie and a greying beard, carried a child. Two of his fingernails (the first and fourth) were painted white. Peering into the child’s eyes, Jonas saw his past staring back.
Welcome to Berlin.
At the end of the jet bridge, a restless crowd waited, their faces marked by a desperate urge to escape. They demanded to reach Madrid, the very place he had just left behind.

Anything that resembled home tightened something in him: stark concrete, echoing stairwells. This was why he sought refuge in foreign places, where smiles appeared for no reason, where the puddles in the asphalt took on unfamiliar shapes.

The white-on-dark-red signs carried him along their ant path: left, right, stay in line, show your passport, take your bag, mind the gap, left, right, buy the ticket, validate the ticket, descend, wait, board, sit, be calm, be visible, be normal.
The carriage stretched before him in perfect symmetry: every pole in its place, every passage accounted for. He let himself become what they required, and still he moved with intention — Vesna, waiting for him at a friend’s place on Schulzendorfer Strasse.

The train lurched forward, pulling free from the tunnel into sunset over the suburbs. The brighter the sunlight, the dirtier the windows, he thought. Station after station passed in a blur of names, platforms, faces.

It was dark by the time he reached Schulzendorfer. If you have ever been to Berlin, then you know how little light the minor streets hold. He dragged his wheeled suitcase along the pavement: small square stones near the houses, larger slabs down the middle, then small stones again by the curb. On the slabs the wheels rolled quietly; on the stones they rattled too loudly, so he kept lifting the suitcase, carrying it in short bursts.

Before the last crossroad he stepped off the pavement and let himself drop to the ground, supine among a discarded plastic bottle, an empty bag of chips, and a crumpled candy wrapper. The air smelled of marijuana and used latex.

‘If everything is one,’ he whispered, ‘then you must feel this pain too.’

M’s profile on Models.com

Role: Model

Hair: Black
Eyes: Brown
Height: 179
Bust: 91
Waist: 63
Hips: 87
Shoe: 39

Affiliated Modeling Agencies:

Stockholm
Paris
Milan
London
Barcelona
Copenhagen
Hamburg

Social Media: 6.7 K

‘When I first saw you, I thought you were gay,’ she said to me the day after we met.

The day before, dressed in black, fresh from a haircut, I had leaned against the stone wall of Maison Pichenot, waiting for M.
I had a rental flat in its residential section, while the former ceramic workshop had become a furniture showroom. The tree-lined street, bordered with flower beds, showed no sign of the trouble gathering elsewhere.
My life felt strangely settled: I worked as a tattoo artist at L’Encrerie, had opened a business bank account, recently bought a new camera. I had even decided that if I did not meet the love of my life soon, I would adopt a child.

M was 20 minutes late — a delay that came as no surprise, given the muddled messages she had sent me. When she finally appeared, striding confidently around the corner of a pharmacy, I recognised her immediately: tall, lithe. And her face — I choose not to describe it here; at that moment it did not matter to me.

We went up the stairs to the second floor, and I unlocked the red door to my three-room flat — not counting the dining room or the bathroom. It had an old restored parquet floor that responded to every step with a squeak, and white walls trimmed with mouldings and skirting boards: plaster pretending to remember trees.

Vesna bounded up to greet M with her tail wagging.
‘Hello you.’
I gestured her into my workroom.
‘Come in, make yourself comfortable.’

At the centre: a black massage table, two chairs. A marble fireplace on the left, ceramic plates with Loebnitz’s initials, a large mirror on the mantel. Black cloth on the right wall. At the far end, a French window facing the three-storey CPAM de Paris building.

M slipped off her oversized black jacket, laid it over a chair, and sat at the sunlit table.

‘What word?’
‘Sangre.’
I asked why.
She told me something about her mother and Cuba. I’m not sure I knew how to understand it then.

Her left arm extended toward me. Brown skin, smooth, almost without texture. No hair, no blemishes.
SANGRE. I sketched the word with a pen.
She lowered her head, dark curls spilling across the table.

‘Do you see that wave?’
She pointed to the wrought-iron pattern on the railing outside the window.
‘Yes.’
‘I have the same one tattooed on my foot.’
‘Interesting.’

With her left arm placed under her cheek, she closed her eyes. The only sounds were our breathing and, through the closed window, the muffled voices of people passing in the street.

‘Vesnush, my little doggy-kitten, my hrupsy.’
Jonas kissed Vesna’s nose, knowing exactly where it had been.

One hour until his friend’s sound studio closed for the night. One hour until he could finally collapse.
He sat on the smoking bench outside, beer in hand, brain half-melted, Vesna pressed against his leg. A man wandered over. Brittle, milk-coloured nails, half the length of normal.
‘The interesting thing about life,’ the man began, swirling the beer in his bottle, ‘is that we reward success with wealth and praise, but it’s the unsuccessful who truly need support. Don’t you agree?’
‘Not tonight pal.’
The man raised his bottle.
‘Cheers.’
Glass touched glass.

When the studio emptied, his friend tossed him a key.
‘First room. Couch is yours.’ He turned off the lights and pulled the chain through the handles.
Jonas lit the corridor with his phone and stepped into the room labelled Obscure.
Faded red chairs to the left. A drum kit in the back. Stacked amps. Two mic stands. The couch in the right corner. Walls painted a murky grey.
He lay down with his head on the armrest and cut the flashlight. Darkness dropped like a bag over the head. Eyes open, eyes closed — no difference. Even his breath and heartbeat seemed to vanish. It wasn’t soothing, it felt charged, as if the room held the residue of energy released recently.

He remembered a woman he had once interviewed, a woman who claimed she could speak to ghosts.
‘Am I the first person you’ve met who does this?’
‘Yes.’
Now the memory stayed with him in the dark. He felt he was not alone in the room. Not counting Vesnush, who had no place on the sofa and had curled up on the carpet below.

After an hour his body stopped reporting in, and his thoughts began to wander freely. A scene opened: his ex stood beside him at the mouth of a karst cave, its entrance jagged like a shark’s jaw. They both held hunting rifles.

‘It’s done.’ I gestured toward the wall covered in black cloth. ‘But before you leave, I’d like to take a picture of you.’
‘No problem.’
I reached for my camera. Through the viewfinder, her white shirt took over the frame. I dared to ask, ‘Would you feel comfortable removing your shirt?’
The shirt over her head. Her arms folded halfway behind her back. Wide, sharp shoulders, slightly raised. Elbows just as sharp. The body forming a square. Head tilted to the side. Fingers loose.
Click.
‘Thank you.’

She put the shirt back on, then the jacket, then looked at me directly. Too directly.

‘If you’re not in a rush, would you like to join Vesna and me for a walk to the park?’
A smile.
Yes.

We walked down Rue de Turenne. Then, without warning, M took my hand. I did not know what confused me more: that I barely knew her, or that it had been years since I had last walked like this with someone.

‘Tell me about yourself.’
A pause.
‘My mother is Marina. My father is Arthur. What about your family?’
‘My dad is Spanish. My mum is from Cuba, you already know that.’
‘How did they meet?’
‘He once won some kind of lottery. You know, like betting on a football match? That’s how he travelled to Cuba. He met my mum there. They got married, I was born, and a few months later they moved to Lanzarote.’
Her voice had a birdlike quality. Something in the tongue, perhaps. As if it were a little too large for the mouth.
‘Why did they move?’
‘I don’t know. Actually, maybe I do know. But I don’t like telling family stories in a beautiful way.’
‘Any siblings?’
‘Two brothers. My older brother is 37 and still lives with my parents. He has problems with alcohol.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘No worries.’

We reached Square Georges Cain and sat on a bench facing the right side of L’Aurore, framed by tall orange roses. Dogs moved in circles around us: a small white one, a ginger one, one with mismatched eyes, one that limped.

‘Have you ever felt the weight of not having money?’
‘I don’t remember anything like that. We had a nice life, my younger brother and I. Gifts, toys, parties. Only later I realised we were not really rich.’

Two policewomen entered the square. Vesna pulled the leash, and somehow my hand landed on M’s knee. I left it there. As if we were already close. Friends, perhaps. Maybe even lovers.
Later she would tell me that this was the moment she knew I wanted her. She knew before I did.

‘Give me some bullets.’
She handed him four.
‘That’s not enough. More.’
Her eyes stayed fixed on the cave.
‘We need flashlights. It’s pitch dark in there.’
Cold sweat on his skin. Feet burning as if lashed by whips. Shoulders under crushing weight. Ribs throbbing with a pain so sharp it seemed broken into pieces.
He wanted to scream, but only a moan came out, low and trembling.

Morning arrived without restoring him. He escaped through the back door and headed to a corner café run by an old Turkish man. Wasps moved through the air in small nervous circles. One landed on Jonas’s arm. Its delicate proboscis tapped against his skin so lightly he barely felt it. The wasp looked back at him. ‘If God is the silent awareness inside me, then surely it is the same God inside you.’

The café was not vegan, but it had its charm: wooden chairs with peach-coloured cushions, frayed at the edges; old tables, freshly varnished; ribbed glass salt shakers and sugar bowls with metal tops.

He pointed at: potato burek, apple pie, coffee.
Tap to pay.
A notification flashed on his phone: Your balance has fallen below €10 (€2.08 left). Add money now so your next payment doesn’t get declined!
‘Happy birthday to me.’
He sat down.

Was everything beyond food, water, air, shelter already greed? Were vows of poverty the only exit? Dervishes, monks, beggars, saints. Or was poverty itself just another form of self-importance when chosen freely?
What did I want, really?
To be loved. To succeed. To have sex. A house by the ocean. A family. Velvet curtains. An organic coconut mattress. A car with an inline-six. A silk Alaïa dress and Miu Miu sunglasses for her. A YSL suit for me. Pantelleria. Michelin-starred dinners. A spacious flat overlooking the Luxembourg Gardens.
My late friend David used to say: love doesn’t have to be expensive. What does it cost to sit together by the fire?
And now, sitting there with nothing, Jonas could almost believe in the beauty of essentials.
His lips tightened.

The phone buzzed again. His ex.

‘Happy birthday my dear! We’ve seen and done so much together. I’m so glad we met. I wish you all the luck and happiness in the world.’
‘Thank you. I think my greatest luck is having someone like you in my life. No one has ever loved me or helped me as much as you have. I’m sorry. I feel like I’m about to cry.’
‘You’re getting sentimental, like me. Where are you? What’s going on?’
‘I’m in Berlin. A café called Desd. Vesna is beside me. Wasps too. I wish it hadn’t happened, but I’ve literally just run out of money. I have a few tattoo appointments in Paris later this month, so I’ll have to figure out how to get there.’
‘Jonas, you’re the strangest person I’ve ever known. Have I told you that?’
‘You did. Once. A month after we broke up. On the plane to what used to be our home.’
‘I don’t remember. But I want you to know something. I admire you. I believe in you. And I’m always happy to help you. I just sent you 300. It’s a gift. You don’t need to pay it back.’
A pause.
‘Oh Jonas. I can’t imagine being in your situation. Just the thought of having no money terrifies me. Please get back to Paris safely. We’ll find you a place to live. I’ll help you, okay?’
Her words washed over him.
‘Thank you,’ he whispered.

‘It’s dinner time. Maybe this is too bold, but would you like to join me?’
M was silent for a moment. Then she nodded.

We went back to my flat to leave Vesna at home. That short stretch of time is gone from me, blurred out, but what came after remains clear. We walked down my street and entered Soya, a vegan restaurant. Two lasagnes. Red wine. I wanted a glass. She wanted a bottle.

‘How did you become a model?’
‘I was 17, still in school. My father met a woman who used to be a model. One day he said, Come with me to a café. Let’s see if you have the potential. She was involved in something called Fashion of Lanzarote, and I found it fascinating. When I decided to move to Madrid, she helped me find work. It all happened very quickly. Three months. My parents asked, Are you sure you want to leave school and go to Madrid? I said yes. They supported me. Completely. In everything I wanted.’

I topped up our glasses. My tongue was working at a piece of spinach stuck between my teeth. I realised what my face must look like and stopped.
‘What made you say yes?’
‘Intuition. Ambition. I wanted to become someone. To work, to have money. To be the woman following her dreams and loving herself. To be better.’
‘Better than what?’
‘I don’t know. Better.’
She smiled, almost giddy, her wide-set eyes blinking slowly.

‘Let’s get some air.’

Outside, at a street table, she flicked open a black lighter and lit a cigarette. The flame caught the edges of her fingers. Refined oval nails. Calm hands.
‘You have very beautiful hands.’
She looked at me sharply, ‘I want to see you without clothes.’

Nothing in me was ready. My smile betrayed me. She saw it, enjoyed it. I pretended not to hear. ‘What about a walk along the canal?’ Then, too quickly: ‘Wait here!’
I went inside to pay. Did she mean now?
By the time I came back, the cigarette was finished. She was ready.

The amber streetlights trembled on the dark water of the canal. She held my hand as we walked. It felt unreal, almost suspicious, that this was happening to me. I am not one of those men whose beauty solves the room before they speak. I am not ugly. But I am not tall, my head is too large for my body, my legs too thin. Okay, enough, back to the canal.
Across from Villemin Garden, we stopped near a bench where two musicians were playing saxophone and trumpet. Smooth, slow jazz. We sat on the stone embankment, legs hanging above the water. M smiled. The whole scene seemed to arrange itself around her.
My right hand touched her cheek. My left rested on her belly. She did not move away. Her stillness gave me courage. I leaned in. Her lips.
‘Let’s go to your place and get more wine.’
And I obeyed.

Rain tapping against the small roof window woke him. Jonas thought of his car parked on the street. Rainwater gathering in the fuel tank’s filler neck. Rust feeding on it.
‘Your life is a mess.’

He was staying in a chambre de bonne he had rented from another artist for the week. The plan was simple: find a decent long-term flat before the week ended.

He lay on the unfolded bed, a thin mattress wedged between the shower cabin and the toilet. Heart aching. Ankle throbbing. Somewhere below, on Rue du Faubourg Poissonnière, a truck reversed with its distant electronic beep. He opened the news:

A 6.9 magnitude earthquake struck the Marrakesh-Safi province in western Morocco.
In Derna, Libya, two dams collapsed, flooding the city and leaving a quarter of it destroyed. Over 5,000 were confirmed dead, with thousands more missing.

‘Hello Olga.’
Her face appeared on the phone screen. Polished as always. Minimal makeup. Hazel eyes, long lashes. Lips precisely outlined. Brown hair catching the light like metal.
He had chosen her because of her profile picture. There had been other psychologists, of course. All with diplomas. All with the same careful descriptions of trauma, anxiety, relationships, self-esteem. Her face had stood out. A face he could look at for an hour.

‘I feel deeply unhappy.’
Olga listened.
‘Even though I’m doing what I want. I tattoo letters. I write like it’s the 19th century. Financially it’s tough now, but I keep living one day at a time. All or nothing. But I’m exhausted. And I still love M.’
A pause.
‘I slept with someone else. For the first time since her. She was smart. Her body turned me on. But after I came, everything went grey. Her movements were not like M’s. I asked her to leave. I felt like a bastard.’
He looked away from the screen.
‘Sex gave me what I wanted and took what I needed. I miss M more than ever.’

‘Jonas.’
Calm voice. Professional face.
‘For years, we have been trying to make your life stable. Money. Emotions. Relationships. Something that could hold you. But I think I understand now: you are not a normal person. You do irrational things. You take risks I cannot explain. I still want to tell you to stop, to choose safety. But another part of me knows that, as an artist, you have a character too strong for that. Too stubborn. Too extreme. Sometimes I worry about you. And sometimes I don’t know what to do with you.’
This was their last session.

He went out into Paris, the world’s most beautiful city, to buy the finest vegetables he could afford.

By the time we went looking for wine, all the shops with good bottles were closed. We ended up in one of those corner shops that stay open late.
I took a bottle of Bordeaux to the counter and pulled out my wallet. M came up behind me and wrapped her arms around my neck. I closed my eyes and kissed her fingers. She pressed her head against my back. For a few seconds, I disappeared.

Back at the flat, I opened the bottle, then the living-room window, and placed two chairs in front of it. She smoked. I put on Liszt, poured the wine, and sat beside her.
Outside, yellow roses hung from the railing in their flowerpots.

‘What do you think when you look at them?’
‘I wonder how they’re feeling.’
She put down her glass. We kissed.
‘I want you so badly.’
She did not understand the expression. I took out my phone and googled it for her.
It means anything from I very much want to be with you to I very much want to have sex with you. In the first case: whenever I think you might leave me, I want you so badly. In the second: I want you so badly right now.

Her eyes lit up. Then her shirt was off.
She climbed onto me.
Warm and precise, her breasts close to my mouth, her skin changing under the yellow light from the room.
I kissed her neck. Her ear. Her mouth.
Her tongue moved against mine, almost cruel.

I stood up, half trapped in my own clothes, and carried her into the bedroom.

On the white linen, she took off her black jeans and skin-coloured thong. Long legs open. La M desnuda.
I fell at her feet.

Same Rue de Turenne. Same walk to Square Georges Cain.
Jonas stopped outside Sheriff Gallery. An Instagram photographer was launching a book. He had followed the guy’s work for a few months: grimy portraits of people half-swallowed by nature. A boy holding a tree. A girl almost erased by a wave.

Earlier, the guy had posted that he was looking for a flat. Jonas had sent him a lead.
‘Good luck — I like your work. Would be a pleasure to meet.’
‘Is it your friend?’
‘A friend of a friend.’
Nothing after that.

Inside the gallery, the guy stood among his people: too blond, too bored, too dressed, each face arranged for being seen and not touched. Camille, a former client of Jonas, was behind the sales table, smiling, selling books.

Jonas picked up a copy. Black-and-white cover. A girl’s face lowered beneath a ceremonial headdress. Inside: less than he had hoped.

Back on the street, the guy smoked weed and drank beer. Jonas knew the type. He had met two others like him: same long body, same centre-parted hair, same blank stare, same brief attention reserved for people who might become useful.
He disliked him immediately. Worse, he understood him.

I held M from behind, the front of my heart pressed against the back of hers, my face buried in her tangled hair. Her smell: not perfume, not shampoo.
When morning came, she was still asleep. I moved closer and breathed her in again. The scent was the same, not new, already stored somewhere in the body, as if it had been there before childhood, before language.

Vesna stood beside the bed, tail moving like a plume, bright with the expectation of our morning walk.
Jeans. Black shirt. Leather shoes.
On Boulevard Richard-Lenoir, Utopie was already open. Something excessive for M. Something sweet.

She was still asleep when I returned.
A kiss on her cheek. Her eyes opened.
‘I thought you might like this.’
The white box opened. She took a bite. Strawberry and basil. Her face changed almost imperceptibly as she understood the taste.
‘Say my name.’
‘M.’
‘Now repeat after me.’
Spanish. A sentence I did not understand. I repeated it carefully, as if taking an oath.
‘What did I just say?’
She laughed, kissed me, and went to shower.

I fed Vesna. Then I turned and saw M standing naked in the doorway. Just her body after water. I could not move. It was not only beauty. It was the fact that her body seemed to know its own power: intelligence, danger, freedom.
We kissed.
Her hand found me, already hard.
I pushed her gently onto the bed and went down on my knees.
Below her pubic hair, a lotus tattoo.
Her dark eyes stayed on me, steady, almost severe.
‘Do you love me or just my pussy?’
My face lifted from between her legs.
‘I don’t know how to separate.’

Jonas had forged everything he could forge: bank statements, employment contracts, proof of income from jobs that did not exist. Still, no one would rent him a flat.

By chance, his ex had just found a better place for herself and offered him the old one. The lease would stay in her name. No agency file. No three months upfront. No performance of solvency. With no other way in, Jonas accepted.

The flat was near La Chapelle, where languages changed every few metres and whole lives seemed suspended between arrival and departure. Men from Kabul, Lahore, Cairo, Delhi. Some still dreaming of England. The Channel ahead of them like a moat, Gare du Nord behind them like a last illusion. So they stayed, selling Marlboros, fruit, fake sneakers, whatever could be carried, hidden, sold, replaced.

The flat itself was a decent cave: a large ground-floor studio, load-bearing columns, a bedroom opening onto a courtyard boxed in by garages. Trains ran 40 metres away, from five in the morning until one at night. The tiled floor was cold and silent underfoot, but if he pressed his ear to it, the vibrations of passing trains entered the skull.

He collapsed onto the bed, opened Instagram, and saw that M had posted a photo with the guy.

Fuck.

It was obvious now. She had started dating him. Nothing like Jonas. At least not like the version of Jonas he had become.

For the first time, Jonas looked at his own work and doubted its coolness, its violence, its talent. Everything he had made suddenly seemed too earnest, too wounded, too late.
The Buddhist in him whispered: Wish her well. Another voice: If they are still together in three years, then give up.

The power to stop his heart from aching had abandoned him. That night, he swore never to check her stories before sleep again.

She left at noon, but did not leave my thoughts. Was I in love? Not yet, I decided.

That afternoon, AL, an art curator from New York, came for a tattoo. She was in Paris for a few days and had chosen the word être.
While I prepared the tools, I asked why.
‘I’ve been thinking about what being means to me. What it means to be present. To exist in a moment, knowing it could be all we have. We take tomorrow for granted, but what we do every day shapes who we are. And yet so much of our time now is spent anywhere but here.’
I sketched the word along the side of her ribcage.
‘I’ve had more than a few close encounters with death. At 15, 25, 32, and twice last year, at 40. Last year was different. It made me face the contradiction I was living inside — this belief that I was sacrificing the present for some imagined better future. But life doesn’t always work like that. I’ve learned how important it is to live. To experience. To choose the moment consciously.’
Her skin was pale, pliant, almost papery. Only four letters, but the surface demanded care. Too much pressure and the ink would spread beneath the lines.
‘Why tattoo it?’
‘As a reminder to stay in the now. It may sound silly, but this tattoo is my memo to remember that in this moment I am here, and I can choose what to make of this time.’
Afterwards, I remember nothing of interest. Vesna’s walk. Blake’s Life Is Not the Same If We’re Miles Away. Food. Time refusing to pass.

I texted M.
‘Do you see any signs of coming back tonight?’
‘Tonight.’

It was midnight when her message arrived.
‘Downstairs.’
‘17508.’
I left the door ajar and listened to her footsteps on the wooden stairs.

‘Hello pretty.’
She pulled me onto the bed and straddled me, her kisses rough against my unshaven jaw, her breath carrying the trace of alcohol.
Skin met skin. We had sex until her moans filled the room.

‘I should learn how to shave better. Your face is red.’
‘I don’t mind being red.’
She kissed me again, as if we had never kissed before.

Is anyone here?
Is it you? Or is it me?
No beggars on the street today. Do they take Saturdays off?
Wait.
Do I need you, or do I need to be seen by someone like you?
No one is like you.

Jonas hangs up his coat. The belt slides through the loops and falls to the floor.
He picks it up.
Hangs it again.
Washes his hands.
Then his clothes.
Then the soles of his shoes.
The water turns black in the sink.
Surface shining.
Depth hidden.

Will I love you tomorrow the way I love you today?
Is that blood I feel under my skin?
I want it again.
Am I still afraid of disappearing?

He scrubs the sole of his shoe and thinks of his mother.
He still cannot talk to his father.
Sometimes he aches for someone to talk to.
No one is there.

On my back, staring at the white ceiling, I walked my fingers down her spine.
‘How old were you when you first had sex?’
Her head rested on my chest.
‘Very young.’
‘Have you ever loved?’
‘Yes. I met him when I moved to Madrid. He was 37. He travelled a lot.’
‘And you were 17?’
‘Yes. It lasted half a year, but it was intense. Too intense. I broke up with him when he came to Lanzarote. I didn’t trust him, so I checked his laptop. There was a picture of my friend in Madrid. Naked.’
A pause.
‘At first I wanted to kill him.’

Why was the first image my mind produced his body on hers?
We fell asleep holding each other.

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