M. Daguerre

2 Sep

On various mornings, Louisa awakes with a sense of darkness that hovers in her dreams and follows her throughout the day. Lonely strains of concerto music float in the corners of her awareness, building and crashing, reminding her to breathe. Louisa comforts herself with literature and photography; her one-room apartment is stacked to the ceiling with books. She has imaginary conversations with Monsieur Daguerre, whom she is deeply (and secretly) in love with, despite death, dirt and centuries separating him from her.  She carries his picture in a delicate silver locket, worn around her neck, which she never removes.

Louisa carries a parasol wherever she goes, rain or shine; it covers her in a somber patina of gloom and dusk. She dresses herself each day as if preparing for a lover, draped in romantic shapes and colors. She catches the eye of many but returns no one’s gaze.

M. Daguerre


Louisa sets a rickety table with tea, each day at four in the afternoon. If she were still a child, she’d occupy the empty seats with her overly-loved dolls, their eyes turned down from weariness, or perhaps jaded exasperation. Alas, Louisa is a grown woman in body, and a ghost in spirit. She sips her tea from a half-shattered porcelain cup which she found buried in the dirt of her backyard; she had delicately peeled the pieces from the mud, glued them back together, and admired her handy-work with a tinge of smugness. That is until she saw the flaw: a large chunk was missing. She had to be careful not to spill tea on her dress!  Of course, much like the fantasy tea-parties of her youth, there is no tea. There is no sugar. There is nothing but Louisa and the idol of her mind.


Mlle. Remi


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