Toulouse-Lautrec in the Montmarte Happiness was the nights we spent in the clubs, our table abutting the stage, sipping cognac as Henri sketched a quadrille’s dancers, their petticoats kicking up like surf. In the early morning Toulouse dragged his legs from under the table and we walked the streets, his chest out as if he were a ship sailing in with a cargo of silk. He wanted everyone to believe we were lovers-- his artist's pinch-nez unable to distract from the thick eyebrows, the big nose, a face as ugly as a dogfish. "I have much to be grateful for," he confessed. "Then why do you drink so much?" I asked. "How can I not," Henri answered, "knowing Heaven can only disappoint after evenings spent with you in the Montmartre?” Bob Bradshaw Bob Bradshaw is recently retired, and living in California. He is a big fan of the Rolling Stones. Mick may not be gathering moss, but Bob is. Bob's work can be found in many publications on the net, including Apple Valley Review, Eclectica, Loch Raven Review, Peacock Journal and Pedestal Magazine, among others.
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The Ekphrastic Review
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April 2021
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