France, 1879

'Go astray with me,
Abandon any belief brought forth
From this space between us
That I ever ceased thinking of you.
Let go of the malice
That constrains us such
And that keeps you
Away from me.'

Bataille stared at the words on the page. The ink glimmered, and he was tempted to run his finger over the lines, to smear what was written into an incomprehensible stain. Only then would he have the strength to present the letter to whom it was addressed. Such a fool, such an absolute fool. What did he hope to achieve with such inanity?

"Another cup?" he heard a voice call behind him.

He turned away from his workbook. A serveuse stood holding a steaming kettle, her tilted head indicating she was waiting for a response.

"Yes, please," he said. It had been an exhausting day, and his only consolation was the promise of another warm cup of tea. He watched her lean over, carefully pouring the water into his empty cup. "Chamomile."

She nodded and procured the small bag of tea from her pocket.

"Enjoy," she said, leaving it on the table before him.

His gloved hand lingered over the bag. Bataille thought about the comfort it would bring, conjured up the sensation in his mind. He hoped this familiar ritual would alleviate the bitterness the past few hours had brought. As he ran a finger across its fabric, he considered the ramifications of what had occurred.

It was merely a visit to the latest installation of Impressionist art. He had been personally invited by the patron of the exhibit. Not uncommon now that his publications were garnering attention, but it was a bizarre affair. The gallery was full of the absolute quaintest art in existence, nothing that interested him in the slightest. He had been asked to join, no doubt, in order to cause a scene. Nothing, he had learned, brings notoriety like the clamoring of dissent. And if Bataille had will enough to do anything, it was to dissent.

Yet, after having spent a significant half-hour touring the gallery, the thoughts never arose. He looked upon the vivid colors, glaring under the artificial light. The superfluous forms dotted across the canvas. He gazed at these artworks and marveled at the fact he felt not a thing, no distaste nor contempt. It was as if somewhere between the light receptors in his eyes and the synapses in his head, the signal had been lost. Preoccupied, he now realized, with some senseless prose now emblazoned in his workbook. And an inescapable heaviness.

"Utter nonsense," he said under his breath, now plopping the tea bag into the cup to steep. He was obliged by the patron to write up a response on what he had seen. And what had he seen but his own folly? Such absent-minded antics would not hold under the scrutiny of the art sphere. He had labored for months to gain viewership for his prints, quickly becoming a rising candidate for notable paper editorials.

Mais pour quoi?

Bataille pulled up the newspaper from where it lay on his lap and flipped through the worn pages. He found the art section and scanned the listings for the gallery he had just attended. It was advertised in bold font, and a neat list of names was displayed alongside. Berthe Sisley, Gustave Mayenne, Andre Villanueva. Alfred Morisot, Andre Villanueva. Andre Villanueva Andre Villanueva Andre Villanueva.

A name all too familiar. Of course, he had been the featured artist, he was an expert in peddling the public's latest infatuation. Always so tastelessly in tune with the demands of the modern world. Yet when Bataille looked at the smears of paint upon the canvas, he thought only of the rough hands that procured them. The soft brown eyes that labored over the painting for countless long nights. And the voice that once called him over in excitement, eager to share in the exhilaration of creating another work of art. It had been his greatest respite in life.

'Haphazard color splattered thus
Our hues blur to make something new
What would it take to dismantle that trust?
To define a void where I once had you?'

His own words had worked against him. So eager to prove himself, to gain an audience that went beyond what he could hope for then, Bataille began writing with a pen dipped in vitriol. Scathing art reviews attributed to him began accumulating in the city streets. And along with it came the name of the artist so overwhelmingly present in his life. It was an unintended betrayal, yet he remained accused of such. But what choice had he but to stand by his words? Eventually, through those very pages, Villanueva became a figure to be considered. His work was no longer a conspiracy between the two; it was beholden to the admiration of all of France.

And now, like a passing stranger, he had just witnessed this new success.

The tea did little to quell his despair. He was afflicted by the existence of that man. If he allowed his mind to linger, to indulge in the distress that hid within his consciousness, he could imagine himself demanding to be forgiven. The echoes of his thoughts filled innumerable letters he wished he could reveal. He had but a single desire. For their colors to blend together once more to create something that didn't fill him with shame. With regret. With longing.

And with this dismal conclusion to his evening, Bataille put down his empty cup. The light was dimming. Beyond the edges of the cafe, men walked along the streets in tight groups. There was a gaiety in the air that he couldn't allow himself to feel. By now he was no longer privy to the reckless consumption of a Friday night. Instead, he has grown accustomed to lingering in the space between where his head and heart divide. In these empty hours, he had little else to do.

Silently, he began his journey back to his building. The walk was uneventful. The voices around him said little of substance. The dark sky glimmered with the same stars that looked down on him night after night. Once more, he thought heavily, they would see nothing new.

But as he arrived at the doorway, something was different. Upon the entrance lay a bundle of delicate white flowers. Even while out of reach, he recognized the scent instantly. Chamomile. A softness filled him. He approached and hesitantly picked up the gift. Around the stems, a cord was interlaced, and a note was tucked within the leaves. The thick cardstock contained a crisp and carefully inscribed message.

"puisque je sais qu'ils sont tes préférés -A.V."

Bataille traced his fingers around the words. Perhaps his letter would have a purpose after all.