Old Men

Boulanger thought about Nadia often.

That girl. If he had put even an ounce of effort in his own daughter — would she have saved him in poor health? Been there instead of Nadia?

Nadia had come to his rescue. Saved him in more ways than one.

I've wanted the men I loved my entire life… but they never see me.

They never saw her.

Boulanger’s eyes yellow. Face red. They never saw him either. Just an old man rotting away in a flat. But Nadia had seen him. Saved his life. Despite everything he had done to creep her out.

He watched from the corridor. Nadia stiff. Lines under her eyes — an ugliness. What had happened? He wanted to ask if she was okay.

“Mademoiselle—“ he began.

Nadia turned.

“Laisse-moi en paix!” She snapped. (“Leave me in peace!”)

Boulanger gulped. Nodded. Shut her door. She was gone again.

Boulanger felt hollow.

He couldn’t help her. He was a useless fucking piece of trash. He wheeled back into his apartment.

He needed the wheelchair because of chronic pain. He could move but it was fucking torture at times. All worth it to play with Nadia.

But just like his real daughter, he had failed Nadia too. He gulped some cheap whisky. Burned his throat. He turned on his TV.