A week had passed, and Bridgette had not heard from Christian. Yet, she questioned why she thought she should hear something from him. In addition, she had received a telegram from her father telling that he would be in London for another couple weeks. He mentioned how his brother�s printing and publishing business, the one he had traveled to use, was overflowing with business and he had a lengthy line to wait in. The message had been short, and if her father could have afforded, she knew that there would have been a list of worries and warnings for her safety. Bridgette found her father annoying for this, but she also loved that he cared so much for her.
Bridgette scrubbed the windows of the front office, peering out into the street, searching for his face. She longed to see his beautiful green eyes, like deep oceans in which she wanted to swim. His broadened features, the silhouette his eyes created. She thought of wonderful and beautiful words to describe him, and she knew it was childish and silly, but it made her feel happy. More important in ways. She looked at a group of women sitting at the small caf� across the street. Bridgette never had many friends, she couldn�t even name off one, nor had she had anyone else but her father, her mother lost before she could remember. She sat there and dwelled in the past, and let the loneliness she had always felt creep upon her.
The sun set behind the caf�, and the sky darkened, setting its purplish haze out like a streak of paint in the horizon. The office became shadowed again, and she was alone, as before. To make her feel better, she thought about Christian, and how she wanted to crawl next to him, feel the warmth of him, how her loneliness was deleted when she was in his presence. The last light slid behind the hill, darkening the world.
Christian watched from his bed the stars appear in the newly blackened sky, which now could show since the absence of the Moulin Rouge�s bright lights. The sheets were a mangled mess on his bed, his room a disaster, lined with bottles of whiskey and wine. Also Satine�s personal things sat in his room, ones which he desperately hated and loved. He hated how that was all he had left of Satine, a robe, pictures, clothing and he loved them for at the least he had something of Satine�s. Something that held sentimental value more then anyone could ever know. Christian was a mess himself, sitting only with an undershirt, suspenders over the top of them.
He lied face up in the bed, looking onto a picture of Satine, which had begun to rip and fade. How the picture deteriorated was frightening to him, because he inevitably knew that someday, his intricate memories of Satine would also fade and the fine line between each one would overlap, and become nothing but fragments of thoughts. He studied the picture tremendously close, and he sometimes found himself looking for a flaw, and he couldn�t find one. His heart ached with emptiness, and he clutched the robe into his hands, and begun to weep, but no tears fell. Only sobs of despair, and he let them escape him.
