Women

Yes, what you have heard is true - Pierrot is indeed a renowned lover, one who has stolen, and broken, at least as many hearts as autos in his meager years. Women are helpless when faced with his combination of open criminality, striking good looks, acute wardrobe, sparkling conversation and utter disdain for the other men around him, and society as a whole. But things were not always this way for Pierrot, for years, when he was but a struggling student at the Sorbonne, absorbing Duchamp, Rodin and my personal favourite Pieter Jansz Saenredam with equal vigour, living in an abandoned building on the Rive Gauche. Women would not even look twice at his sallow cheeks, nor would he look up from the feet of works such as Rodin's 'The Kiss', and then wondering, upon a viewing of that great masters 'Fugit Amor', what was this thing called love, which could condemn two lovers to an eternity of hell for a moment of transcendence, which was worth the intertwined limbs, only to reach blindly as unseen forces pull the two apart, easily trumping their puny mortal efforts. He would find out soon enough, the way of love, by imitating the great lovers of the screen - Bogart, James Dean, Marlon Brando, he would watch them in the all-night cinemas and learn their cool. Pierrot, having conquered a woman and holding her quivering heart in his masculine hand, lost interest as soon as the victory was complete, he would not call, but instead, looked for his next lover, even in front of her, with no subtlety, just to make the pain that much more awkward and crushing. And Pierrot acted as though his actions weighd not upon his own heart, but they did, and they always will. Perhaps some day, in the distant future, Pierrot will be able to settle down to a nice flat on Rue Michelin with a few little ones to read about El Greco to... sooner will a bullet knock him down in the arms of his last love.