Ici, aujourd'hui, maintenant

[vanchinini]

No time had passed under Luka's bridge, but the Seine drifted on.

Dark waters flowed in through one end and out the other, through the dim curtains of shade, past Luka's curled up form on the edge of the concrete shore, flowing on repeat, everlasting. Daylight never reached that timeless nook under the steel arch, a secret mill of Luka's making. The river moved, but never left. Everything was right where it was supposed to be, and nothing ever slipped through his fingers.

Luka's hands drifted idly over his stratocaster's strings, circulating through songs he couldn't name. His fingerpads froze and dried over. Stories could be made of it-- him, the Seine, and the idle playing. Trolls wouldn't greet you under the bridges of Paris, but living statues of boys that played looping songs in static places might. Throw a coin into the water, and leave your clocks outside. Spare a moment in a place where neither mattered. Wait until you lose hours or years or until the Seine tells you to leave. 

The Seine gurgled. Luka's grip tightened on his guitar.

It almost looked as if a geyser would form and spit his thoughts straight back at him. Instead, the water brightened. It glowed. From the rare, pearly spot in the river, a hand emerged, holding a beer bottle as it slammed down on the concrete bank. Then, another hand joined. And then, a head of dyed hair. And then, tattooed arms, and a torso, and legs.

An entire person emerged from the bottom of the river like Melusine, gasping for air instead of water. Luka hadn't even seen them float.

The river person groaned in effort. They crawled up to sit beside him, soaked to the bone, and threw their beer bottle somewhere behind their back. Luka didn't hear the glass shatter. All he heard was the hum of the river, and the river person's exhales. Suddenly, there was two under the timeless bridge. Neither of them spoke. 

"Was it bad?" Luka asked, pained with fear and curiosity. 

River person turned their head in his direction, their eyes blurred. "What?" they muttered in a rough, feminine voice. With the way the Seine dripped off them, it was getting harder to stay scared. 

Luka nodded towards the Seine. "The water. I heard it's like shit soup."

River person looked at the river, sniffed, then swept their bangs back. He had only seen hair that pink on album covers. "No, it's a shit soup with a side of piss. Then again," they looked back, as if they wanted to retrieve their lost bottle, "that might just be the Heineken."

Luka pressed his guitar close to his chest as he giggled, and made the strings sing dissonant chords. He never thought about company, but if he had, the river person might've been exactly what he would've imagined. 

A moment passed. He readjusted, and strummed through the opening of something from Magma. Something muddled. His flow was broken, and he wasn't sure what to play. 

"Do you take requests?" 

Never under the bridge, but for the river person, he could make an exception. Luka shrugged. "What would you like?"

"I don't know. The One Piece theme?" The river person chuckled weakly. "I'm kidding. Play me-- play me this moment."

"From who?"

"You."

"Right now?"

"When else?"

Humming and harmonizing, Luka tried to capture the seconds that swept through him like a new tide. He wanted to ask the person more about their desired sound, but they were already lost to him, their head buried in their tattooed arms. He had to play whatever the song was by ear. 

The river thrummed through the strings. Frantically, but clearly. Luka bit his lip in effort, and plucked another moment from time.