The Peach and the Poppy

by Caesar J. M. Kauftheil

  "Can you choose for me? I trust you."

  "Of course," Rochelle said, warmly, sliding the wine list in front of her. "Any preferences here?"

  "I trust you," Poppy repeated.

  "I think you'd like the cabernet," Rochelle said, perusing the menu.

  I think I'd like to see you caber-naked, Poppy thought, instantly wanting to smack herself in the face. She'd have to tell that one to Jay later. "Sounds good."

  "So, how has the city been treating you?" Rochelle asked, placing her elbows on the table and resting her chin on her woven fingers. The focus of her eyes made Poppy feel flustered.

  "I love it. I kind of feel like I'm… missing something, though, you know?"

  "Elaborate," she said, those intensely gorgeous eyes narrowing.

  "I've been to Notre Dame, the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre…" She counted each place off on a finger. "I just don't feel… wowed, you know? Like, I know these places are significant and everything, but I just don't feel too excited about them."

  "Have you been visiting landmarks every day you've been here?"

  "Not today. I kind of just wasted the day away, up until now."

  "What did you do?"

  "Had breakfast, walked around… wound up by some shops, bought this scarf, walked some more… had a couple glasses of wine…" She was still feeling a little tipsy from the wine, though less so than two hours ago. "Nothing, really."

  "Did you enjoy yourself?" Poppy considered this for a moment.

  "Yeah… a lot, actually." The way she listened and posed pointed questions, Poppy felt that if being a linguist hadn't worked out for Rochelle, she would have made a great psychiatrist.

  "Well, there you go," Rochelle said, leaning back in her chair, and placing her hands, palms up, above the table. "There are essentially two types of tourists. Those who want to saturate their visit with tours of points of interest, eating at restaurants overlooking historical landmarks, trips to museums, taking pictures, buying souvenirs…" One hand bobbed up and down, as if weighing the idea. "And there are those, like yourself—" she indicated to Poppy with her other hand, "—who need to breathe a city in, get away from other foreigners and live like the locals."

  "That… makes a ton of sense when you put it that way," Poppy said, mentally adding 'travel agent' to her list of alternate career options for Rochelle.

  "I've done a lot of traveling," Rochelle said, nonchalantly. Poppy was beginning to notice there was a certain arrogance about Rochelle which she seemed constantly trying to curb. She was an extremely intelligent and accomplished woman, and she had a habit of boasting without meaning to, and when she caught herself doing so, she tried to back off.

  "My ex was definitely the first type. She was supposed to come with me, but things sort of fell apart…" Well, there it was, Poppy thought, having let slip that she was into girls—the pussy was out of the bag.

  "Sounds like she would have been dead weight, anyway," Rochelle said. Poppy wasn't sure if the alluring glint in Rochelle's eyes was intentional, or as with her moments of self-glorification, she emanated seduction without realizing. She was almost thankful when the waiter arrived, breaking the captivating spell Rochelle cast on her. From Rochelle's conversation with him, again unintelligible to Poppy, she got the impression that she was well-liked among the staff.

  "Are you friends with all the garçons here?" Poppy asked, in an attempt to show off the little French she knew. From the look on Rochelle's face, and the laughter she broke into, Poppy immediately realized she had said something stupid.

  "I hope you haven't been using that term with servers," she said, a wide grin still cracked against her lips. Poppy thought for a moment, and was pretty certain she hadn't. Her French was hardly good enough to get much further than 'excusez-moi' and 'merci.' "Garçon means 'boy.' It's considered extremely rude to say that to a waiter."

  Feeling extremely foolish, Poppy took a long drink of her wine.

  "It's okay, you're American," Rochelle assured her, reaching across the table and entirely flipping Poppy's mood by placing her hand lightly, briefly atop Poppy's, in a manner that may have just been friendly, but may have meant more. "Next time, say 'monsieur.'"

  Poppy smiled back at her, and the way she made Poppy feel less self-conscious about her faux pas… Unlike Shannon, who harbored a bit of a superiority complex, despite having accomplished very little of significance in her life, aside from developing amateur levels of skill in vocals and guitar and calling herself a musician.

  "So, what happened with this previous paramour, if you don't mind my asking?"

  "Honestly, she was kind of high maintenance, and kind of controlling… and kind of a bitch." Poppy surprised herself with her answer. She usually didn't like to reveal negative emotions to strangers, and she thought it was in poor taste to discuss exes while on a date. But was this even a date…? Rochelle had a soft, comforting way of opening Poppy up that was unfamiliar; it was so different from Shannon's abrasive demands for information, and the harassing manner by which she and Jay pried details out of one another—as was the established right of a best friend. "It finally all dissolved when I found out she was cheating on me."

  "Ooh," Rochelle said, lips pursed and eyes narrowed as if sharing the feeling that had been like a punch in the stomach. "Dead weight, indeed. Though I must say," she added, bringing her wine glass to her lips, and looking at some point behind Poppy, "French girls aren't much better."

  Bon Appétit

  Poppy eyed Rochelle curiously. Was Rochelle hinting? Before Poppy could pursue the subject further, they were interrupted.

  "Allô!" came a voice from behind Poppy, and their waiter appeared between them, a clean-cut, middle-aged man, with the early traces of distinguishing wrinkles on his face. "I am here to let you know," he began in English, clearly understandable but thickly accented, addressing both women, "that your food will be out shortly. And I have been informed," he said, now looking directly at Poppy and placing a hand on the back of Rochelle's chair, "that this is your first time in our humble city." She felt like she had when she was a child, and a waiter would make a small fuss for her entertainment.

  "Oui, monsieur," she responded, feeling high-spirited enough to play along.

  "Ooh la la!" the waiter said, with a look of false surprise. "Her accent is impeccable." Poppy blushed, surprised that she found the cheesiness so charming. He stayed for a minute longer, making light conversation and assuring Poppy she was in good hands when she was with Rochelle. He disappeared for a moment, and returned with the plates, placing them in front of Rochelle and then Poppy with an added flourish. He made a small bow and then departed with a "bon appétit."

  Poppy started onto her dish, and as hungry as she was, she had to pause after her first bite. "What is this?"

  "You like it?" Rochelle asked, washing down a bite of her own meal with a sip of wine.

  "It's amazing."

  "Then you're better off not knowing. You'll never find it prepared as well in the U.S."

  Poppy's shoulders sagged. "You have a point."

  Both starving, they ate in near peace for a few minutes, aside from their waiter reappearing to fill their wine glasses. As they both cleaned their plates, Rochelle wiped her mouth on her napkin and focused her eyes again on Poppy.

  "So, I've discussed my career with you, but I know nothing of your line of work."

  "I work on a horse ranch," Poppy said. "I train horses and give lessons."

  "Fascinating. I don't believe I've ever known an equestrian." Rochelle's eyes floated away in thought. "Did you have to attend school for that?"

  "I have a degree in animal science, but I've been around horses for most of my life. We have a family friend who has horses, so I learned to ride at an early age."

  "I take it you work somewhere out in the country, then?"

  "Not really. I actually live in a rather affluent area. I teach people with money and time on their hands and their kids, mostly. Most of them probably never r
ide except when they're at the ranch. I mean, I love riding, and I know a few people who compete, but I think for most of my clients, it's a sort of an otherwise useless skill."

  "Ah, that makes sense. The suburban lifestyle can be rather mundane, and people begin dreaming of…" Rochelle's eyes rolled to the side, considering her next words. "Greener pastures," she finished, scrunching her face at her own joke in a way that Poppy found absolutely adorable. Poppy gave a small laugh.

  "Yeah, I give lessons to yuppie cowboys," she said, with a tinge of irony. Wealthy, ex-hippie parents, a dream career, vacation trips to Paris—who was she to call anyone a yuppie?

  The waiter reappeared, carrying a tray with a small chocolate cake, a couple of miniature forks, and pair of wine flutes filled with a velvet-colored red. "On the house, compliments of the chef," he said, laying the dishes down. He placed his fingertips to his lips, blossomed them out with a kiss, and left with a wink.

  They each took a small forkful, and after tasting hers, Poppy put her fork down and moaned. "God damn it, now chocolate cake is ruined for me."

  Une Autre Cigarette

  Rochelle paid for the entire meal, despite Poppy's half-hearted protests—realistically, she knew that covering even her half of the bill would cut deeply into her vacation budget. Rochelle hailed a taxi outside of the restaurant, where they were standing, each under their own umbrella, and Poppy wished she had forgotten hers again. As they climbed into the back, and Rochelle gave the driver a destination, Poppy realized that Rochelle still thought her hotel was only a block or so from her flat. She was pretty sure that the they were headed to a point even further from her hotel than they currently were, but Poppy was too ashamed to admit to her lie… and beside, this just meant spending a few more precious moments with Rochelle—given the several days she had left in Paris, she figured it might be the last time.

  On the ride, Rochelle suggested a few places that Poppy might like to visit. The one that seemed the most interesting was an English bookstore near Notre Dame, and Poppy felt proud of herself, confident at least in knowing how to get herself to that area. They arrived in front of a small market, and Rochelle paid the fare.

  "This is where you live?" Poppy asked, a bit puzzled.

  "Upstairs," Rochelle said, indicated to a door wedged between the façade of the market, and the front of another store. "I'd invite you up for a cup of coffee, but I intend to spend a few hours on some paperwork before bed. I'm dying for a cigarette, though, if you'd like to keep me company."

  Absolutely, thought Poppy. For you, anything. I will tolerate that awful taste of tobacco and wash my mouth out three times when I get back to my hotel to spend an extra five minutes with you. Hell, I already lied twice to end up on the far side of the city just to squeeze these extra few moments out of you; I might as well push for every second at this point, right?

  "Sure."

  Rochelle removed two cigarettes from the pack, and handed one to Poppy. They huddled together to create a barrier against the wind so they could light their cigarettes, and Poppy feinted a couple of drags. They smoked for a minute or two without the exchange of words, just the pleasant silence that Poppy had experienced with her several days prior at the brasserie.

  "Thank you for today, for everything. I really, really appreciate all of it."

  "It's been my pleasure, truly. How much longer is your stay?"

  "Less than four days… I'm taking a plane back Saturday afternoon," Poppy said, before taking another puff of smoke into her mouth, holding it without inhaling for two seconds, and releasing in a steady stream. In the light from a nearby streetlamp which illuminated Rochelle's face, Poppy saw her pupils travel again to the corners of her eyes, and her lips part.

  "Hmmm… perhaps we'll be able to join up again sometime before then, and I can take you out for drinks, as I promised."

  "Oh, you really don't have to… I mean, I would really like that, really, but it doesn't have to be drinks. It can be whatever. Or drinks. Or whatever." Poppy said, sucking on the filter of the cigarette to occupy her mouth and cease her babbling.

  "I'll let you know if and when I'm free," Rochelle said, flicking her cigarette into a nearby puddle. Poppy dropped hers to the ground and stomped it out, glad to be relieved of the act of smoking. "Get back to your hotel safe!" she said, approached Poppy with an outstretched arm.

  "Of course," Poppy said, embracing Rochelle, hugging perhaps a little tighter than might be considered appropriate if this wasn't a date, but an acceptable squeeze if it was, and Poppy still wasn't sure which. It was tempting, so tempting, to go in for a kiss just to find out.

  Nerves got the better of her, though, and she was left standing in the rain as they released, and she watched Rochelle press some numbers into a key pad, and wave as she disappeared through the door. She sighed, and started walking toward the Metro entrance.

  Pun Pals

  "So, you didn't even try to kiss her?" Jay asked incredulously over the phone as Poppy lay on her hotel bed, alone.

  "No… I didn't know if she would be into it, and I didn't want to make it weird for her, you know?"

  "What do you have to lose? You're leaving the country in a few days, and you'll probably never see her again. Either she'd have been down for it and you'd have hooked up with a hottie, or she'd have pushed you away, and you'd still have gotten a free dinner!"

  "I suppose…"

  "Plus, she's a cunni-linguist, so she's probably crazy good at eating out." Poppy just shook her head at this, knowing he was saying this for the sake of a joke. It reminded her, however, of the Chardon-naked pun she had made earlier in head, so she shared it with Jay. "Heh heh, that's a good one. You should have said it aloud. Are you going to see her again before you leave?"

  "She said tonight that she might have time during the week, so I guess I just have to wait for her to hit me up."

  "Well, she's already taken you on two 'dates', and she's suggesting a third. She's probably into you. I mean, she could just be interested in spending time with you for your winning personality," he said sarcastically, warranting an 'Asshole' from Poppy. "If she wants to hang out again, you'd better make a move."

  "I guess… but she's really hot, Jay. Like, way out of my league, even if she is a lesbian."

  "Well, most girls are way out of your league," he said, his voice getting saucy and sharp with ridicule again. "Maybe she's sick of all the haughty hotties in Paris, and she secretly has a thing for blonde American girls." Poppy knew this was the closest Jay would ever get to paying her an actual compliment—theirs was a friendship based greatly off of cruelty and jokes at one another's expense.

  "Fiiine," Poppy said in a mock whine. "I guess I'll make a move if I see her again. For your sake."

  "You know you need a palate cleanser after Shannon."

  "That I do," Poppy said. "That I do."

  Shakespeare and Co.

  Wednesday

  The prevalence of overcast gray skies and rain would have been a damper on any other vacation, Poppy thought, exiting the St-Michel Notre Dame Metro station, and walking out onto Quai Saint Bernard. She opened her umbrella, and following the advice of Rochelle and the directions of her guide book, she headed towards the Shakespeare and Company bookstore. She had taken a break from her usual breakfast place this morning, opting to try a pastry from the bakery across the street where she had seen Rochelle for the first time—if Rochelle went so far out of her way to get her bread there, it had to be pretty good. The pastry, along with the last night's meal, were substantial enough that she didn't think twice as she passed a number of Left Bank restaurants, many of them obviously catering to the torrents of tourists in the area with sandwich board signs in both French, and more prominently, English.

  Finally, she found the green doors and yellow sign of her destination, and she walked in, shaking off and closing her umbrella. The first thing that struck her was the sheer volume of books, covering every wall and filling the tight space so thoroughly that it was
difficult to get through the narrow passages of cross traffic, even with her slight frame. She could only describe the place as a book lover's wet dream, and she could immediately understand why a logophile like Rochelle would consider this as a must-see locale in Paris. She wandered aimlessly for several minutes, overwhelmed by the selection, and wishing she was a more literate person so she could truly enjoy the scope of what she was experiencing.

  By sheer luck, she happened upon a book of French swears and curses and knew immediately that she had a gift that trumped the shot glass she had picked up for Jay. As she wandered around the back of the shop, the glossy paperback under her arm, she noticed a staircase upward. Inwardly hoping that there was something more than books on the second floor, she grabbed the handrail and made her way up.

  And, of course, there were books upstairs, but the second story seemed to be more of a library than a bookstore. There were several ancient-looking beds, for a reason Poppy wasn't certain of, a room with a piano, and another room with benches and cushioned shelves to sit on around the perimeter, populated sparsely with people turning pages in novels. On the far wall, a window looked out to the front of the shop, and the rain pattered against it. Yes, she could definitely see Rochelle relaxing here, reading her way halfway through the library. For lack of anything but a sense of cozy adventure, Poppy grabbed a random hardbound spine and started reading.

  She made it halfway through the first sentence before her mind began to trail off. Collections of books always made her think of college. Well, the library at her college. Well, spending time in the library during her freshman year at college.

  Well, April.