The Peach and the Poppy

by Caesar J. M. Kauftheil

  "Can I take a picture of you and the view?" Poppy said, pulling out her phone. "So I have a reminder of today, and my fantastic tour guide."

  Rochelle obliged, and Poppy zoomed in with her phone's camera, cutting out much of the background to get a closer shot of Rochelle's face and upper body. Once the picture was taken, she sent it to Jay in a text with the message, "This is her." She thanked Rochelle, and as they were both standing, having had their eyes' fill of the view, Rochelle suggested they continue onward.

  "Would you be interested in exploring the basilica?" Rochelle asked, pointing to the colossal church behind them that Poppy had somehow not taken account of upon their arrival at the top. "Sacré Coeur—Sacred Heart. It's very pretty inside."

  Poppy's face screwed up. "Mmm… I'm not really a big fan of churches, to be honest."

  "Thank god," Rochelle said with a smile. "It's enjoyable the first time or two, but I find religious establishments rather dull as well. Onward, then?"

  "Onward," Poppy responded.

  Picture Perfect Fantasies

  Rochelle led Poppy on a short walk that ended in what seemed at first to be a bustling courtyard, started to seem more of a craft fair and ended up being something much more unique. There were throngs of people, some tourists, some natives, interspersed with artists standing behind canvasses. While there were some prefabricated pieces for sale at tables, the greater means of income among the artists seemed to be doing portraits on the spot. Poppy had never seen anything quite like it.

  "Would you like a glass of wine?" Rochelle asked, cocking her head towards the patio seating at one of the restaurants lining a wall at the edge of the area. Poppy nodded, and they were promptly seated by a waiter, looking out upon the scenery, in silence and smiles, until their glasses were brought out.

  "So, where are we now?" Poppy asked, taking a sip from her glass, as if drinking wine so early in the day was a usual thing—as it was quickly becoming. She wasn't sure what she was going to do with the lunch-time cabernet cravings when she got back home.

  "Montmartre," Rochelle responded. "It used to be an area that was full of artists… but now it's become more tourist centered, too expensive for the artists to actually live here, so you're left with these," she said gesturing to the older men with paintbrushes and sketchpads, enticing passersby with compliments, insisting they should allow the artist to capture them in pigments.

  It reminded Poppy of Haight-Ashbury in San Francisco, historically a landmark of the hippie revolution, but now nothing more than a series of shops making a killing off the reputation of the street, and a slightly more clustered homeless population than most of the rest of the city.

  A gray-mustached man wearing an artist's smock and a beret approached them at their table, with his arms and his lips both spread wide.

  "My! Such beautiful women!" He spoke with a French accent, and assumed them both to be tourists. "I would love to capture this beauty," he continued to coax, holding up his hands as if framing them in a picture.

  Poppy blushed and buried her face in her hands, and Rochelle rejected his offer in French.

  "Good decision," said a man sitting at another table nearby, looking as if he was cut of the same cloth as the man who had just approached them. He was scribbling in a sketch pad, and sipping at a cappuccino. "He's not very good," he said, with an air of confiding a secret.

  Poppy thought he was friendly, not as obtrusive or smarmy as some of the painters working their ways through the crowds, searching for victims. They engaged him in light discussion, which to Poppy was just another aspect of the charms of the places that Rochelle was showing her. Rochelle and the stranger spoke in English for Poppy's benefit, though it was only a rambling conversation. They asked if he, too, was an artist, and he told them he was a poet, but he knew the artists very well—and the man they had just shooed away had been correct in noting that they were beautiful subject matter.

  Poppy felt a guiltily giddy tinge of desire to have a portrait of her and Rochelle together. She privately imagined the masterpiece of her and the gorgeous, exotic-looking, half-Japanese, half-Filipina goddess together during the courting phase of their relationship, to frame and place in the living room of the house… which they would never have, Poppy reminded herself. Rochelle was a successful, sexy, woman who was miles out of her league—albeit very, very friendly, perhaps to the point that it should be obvious that she was looking for something more than just company from Poppy—and she lived in Paris, anyway. Poppy didn't have the means to quit her job and move to a country where she didn't even speak the language, and she didn't expect Rochelle, even if something were to happen and there were some mutual desire to continue, to leave her home in Paris for America. There would be no relationship, no home, and no wall in a non-existent living room to hang an imaginary painting.

  But there was the present moment, there was wine, there were artists, there was Rochelle who, if nothing else, was showing her a wonderful time in the City of Love, and there would, at the very least, be an attempt at a kiss later. She would need more wine before that point, but it was definitely going to happen.

  Souvenir

  Another man approached, this one even older, white hair peeking out from under the brim of a hat, face wrinkled, and hands gnarled with age. He shook hands with the poet and embraced him as an old friend, and then acquainted himself with Rochelle and Poppy.

  "Are these your friends?" the new stranger asked the seated man, before schmoozing on about "lovely ladies" and "perfect profiles." Poppy blushed again, embarrassedly laughing behind her hand. "Would you allow me to paint you? You won't have to pay for it if you don't like it. You have nothing to lose, eh?"

  To the side, the poet gave the girls a nodding wink and a subtle thumbs-up. He seemed to have respect for the artist… or perhaps just that he was working with the artist to earn the trust of tourists to drum up business. Rochelle looked to Poppy, insinuating it was her choice at this point.

  Poppy nodded, with a feigned reluctance.

  The artist stood before them, scrutinizing the scene from several different angles. He wiggled his index fingers in inward motions, asking them to move closer together. Poppy more than happily obliged, and soon their bodies were pressed together, arm against arm. The artist walked up to them, gently took Rochelle's arm and draped it over Poppy's shoulders, and with the tips of his fingers, closed the gap between their faces until their cheeks were touching. Poppy's heart fluttered wildly.

  The man began painting, holding his pad with one arm and painting with the other, his pallet set up on a small stool, only stopping occasionally to make small adjustments to their pose. Poppy was in heaven, with a wonderful excuse to spend so long feeling Rochelle's soft, warm cheek, to wear Rochelle's arm around her shoulders as if she were claiming possession of Poppy. And Poppy's hand, by a happy accident, had fallen into Rochelle's lap, and her palm was now filled with the Rochelle's thigh. Her fingers twitched with the desire to stroke, to clutch and express their craving for what was hidden beneath the fabric, to glide up to the crotch, undo the buttons, one-by-one, and playfully pet what was waiting just beyond the cloth barriers. She knew she was getting herself turned on for a release that may never come, but she couldn't help herself, so close to the object of her desire. She hoped Rochelle couldn't feel the warmth of her blushing radiating from her cheek.

  They were posing for a quarter hour, and though it felt awkward to remain unmoving for so long, every moment was one Poppy didn't want to end. It was a state of suspended animation—like a delayed gratification, but without ever finding out that the gratification might not be there at the end. People passed by, stopping to look at the artist's canvas, to the women, and back to the painting, smiling. Poppy wondered how it looked, but she would have to wait until the final product was finished before she could see. Finally, the artist called over the poet, who took a discerning look at the piece, and gave a critical nod.

  The artist presented them the piece: it was don
e mostly in bold, broad strokes, giving the portrait an element of tasteful abstraction, but still managing to capture much of the refined beauty in Rochelle's smile, and even Poppy felt that she had been well-captured. There was a romantic softness portrayed between the two of them… sweet, exotic Rochelle, Poppy with the blonde fringe of her new haircut, painted onto the large sheet of paper—but Poppy wasn't quite sure why the artist had decided to encircle them with a large heart. Did they seem like they were together? For a brief moment, she dreaded Rochelle's response to the addition.

  Rochelle chuckled lightly at the picture, and told the painter she loved it. Poppy nodded assent, knowing that her face must be glowing red. She sipped her wine as Rochelle negotiated the price and pulled out a number of Euros to pay for the artwork, which the artist rolled up and bound with a rubber band.

  "What did I tell you?" the poet asked, standing near their table with his arms crossed. The artist thanked them thoroughly, pointed them in the direction to get a cardboard tube container, and joined his poet friend at his table.

  After they finished their glasses of wine, they ordered another round, and with the portrait on their table, they were left alone by the other predatory artists.

  They finished their glasses in peace, and Rochelle asked if Poppy was ready to move on. They purchased a cylinder at a gift shop nearby, and Rochelle placed it in Poppy's hands.

  "I think this is a better souvenir to remember your copine de Paris than a cell phone picture," Rochelle said, with a smile.

  "How are you going to remember me, though?" Poppy asked coyly.

  "I won't forget," Rochelle said, grinning. Now? thought Poppy. Was this the moment to kiss her? Before she got a chance, Rochelle began walking out of the store, insisting: "Come on, our day isn't over yet."

  Well, thought Poppy. The day wasn't over, and she would have more opportunities to make her move.

  New Fires and Old Flames

  Under Rochelle's leadership, they ended up outside of another restaurant, and though all the eateries looked more or less similar to Poppy, she knew if Rochelle had chosen it, it wouldn't be a disappointment. The waitress here seemed to be another of Rochelle's network of adoring servers, and they were greeted enthusiastically, and given a nice table in an intimate corner again. The woman returned shortly after they were settled with two cups and a decanter of something that smelled very potent.

  "I hope all this day drinking isn't overwhelming you," Rochelle said, pouring her a cup of the light amber colored liquid.

  "Not at all," Poppy said, sniffing curiously at the drink set before her. "I never get to act like a functioning alcoholic back home." Rochelle wrinkled her nose in an amused smile.

  "It's cider, by the way."

  "Like apple cider?"

  "Yes, but it may be a bit different than you're used to," Rochelle said, lifting her cup. "Cheers."

  "Cheers," Poppy said, tapping Rochelle's cup, and taking a cautious sip. It was much more of a kick and much less sweet than what she was expecting, but she took down the drink in stride. "That's something else," Poppy said, choking back a cough.

  Rochelle gave one of her soft laughs, and Poppy knew she would make a fool of herself a million times over to hear and see that laugh on Rochelle's face. It made the world around her soft and sweet. Rochelle ordered for them again, and told Poppy she was in for another treat, rubbing her hands together.

  "So," Rochelle said, lacing her fingers, and looking at Poppy. "You never told me the story of that girlfriend who was supposed to join you."

  "Oh, Shannon…"

  "We don't have to discuss it, if you'd rather not. I'm only curious."

  "I don't mind," Poppy said, with a shrug. "There were a lot of issues, but you know, when you're in a relationship, you tend to pretend away all the little things. She was a bit more controlling than I'd like. We also worked together, which I suppose was a bad idea…"

  "Definitely," Rochelle said. "Never wise to mix business with pleasure."

  "Well, I know that now… I was supposed to be her boss, too, so on top of her expecting some leniency, she tried to take the reins from beneath me. We had some arguments about that. She also had a bit of an ego. She called herself a 'singer songwriter,' even though all her music was just this derivative garbage, and she would drag me out to her performances and cafes, like, every week, and I had to pretend to be supportive. And she thought she was such hot shit at riding, but obviously I was her boss for a reason…"

  Poppy realized she was blathering, having already finished her first cup, and being poured another by Rochelle, who seemed nonetheless keen to hear the story. Poppy hadn't realized how much pent up anger she had about the situation until it was spilling out of her mouth.

  "We were together for… it was going to be two years. This was going to be what we did for our anniversary. I had to talk her out of a trip to Washington D.C. to see all the historical monuments. As you know, I'm not really one for sightseeing…" Rochelle nodded in acknowledgement. "Anyway, I guess none of this was the actual issue, but really, who the fuck wants to go look at government buildings on a fucking anniversary?"

  "What was the reason that you two separated?" Rochelle asked, gently nudging Poppy back to the point of her rambling.

  "Shannon, god damn her, she cheated on me. With one of the other performers at her little shows, some other crappy singer. And the funny thing is, she was always the jealous one, accusing me of flirting with other people," Poppy said, a little more aggressively than she had meant to. "I'm sorry, I didn't meant to get like that."

  "It's perfectly understandable," Rochelle said, reaching across the table, and Poppy felt all the anger vanish from her body, as darkness vanishes in light, as Rochelle placed an consoling hand over hers. "The wounds are fresh, and they take time to heal. You're better off without her, though. Think of all the freedom you now have to go and pursue exciting things."

  "Yeah, you're right. I would never have gotten to spend all this time with you…" Poppy blushed, worrying that she had come on too strong. Damn the wine. "I mean, all the things in Paris you've shown me, that I'd probably never see otherwise…" she said, attempting to backpedal, too nervous to look Rochelle in the eye and gauge her reaction.

  The waitress appeared with a couple of plates, and Poppy acknowledged that servers had quickly become her routine saviors from these awkward situations. The woman placed a large round plate before each of them, and on the dishes were large, round, thin doughy disks. A small metal decanter, as with which one might be given cream for coffee or syrup for pancakes, was placed by each plate, and from the smell, Poppy knew she was due for more alcohol. Was Rochelle trying to get her drunk? That really wasn't necessary.

  As Poppy was prepared to ask about this new liquor, still not finished with her second cup of cider (or third, maybe—she was starting to get fuzzy on the details), the waitress poured the liquor onto each plate, and produced a lighter. As two blue flames danced on the table, looked on with awe, and Rochelle sat back with a satisfied smile.

  The name of the dish flashed across Poppy's mind: crêpes flambé.

  She had heard of it, always thought that it would be something interesting to experience, but she had never believed it would be by chance placed before her. Never in my wildest dreams would I have imagined this, Poppy thought, her emotions magnified by the alcohol… but Rochelle seemed to be from beyond her wildest dreams, a goddess from the furthest ends of desire that Poppy had never believed she could attain. Her mouth went dry as she remembered that she would be attempting to confront this woman with her lips later.

  "I don’t know how to thank you enough for all this," Poppy said, as they waited for the flames to subside. "You really didn't have to do all this for my sake."

  Rochelle shrugged. "It's my pleasure. You're very enjoyable company, Poppy. It's only a shame your time in Paris is so short."

  "I think I'll have to visit again. There's so much I know I'm not going to get a chance to see, and… now
that I have a friend in Paris, I have a reason to come back and visit."

  "I hope you will," Rochelle said, taking a fork to her crêpe, and Poppy followed suit, taking in the savory flavor of the crêpe with leftover traces of the burned away Grand Marnier to balance out the dryness of the cider.

  By the time they finished their lunch, Poppy was feeling delightfully fuzzy, and as she stood up, she felt light on her feet. The intoxication of all the alcohol, of the pleasure of being near Rochelle, of drinking away the anxieties of what she knew she had to do, was beginning to affect her, but she had just barely entered the point of tipsiness, with a hint of feeling good.

  "I think all the booze is starting to hit me," Poppy said, airily.

  "Likewise," Rochelle said, taking a deep breath as they walked back onto the streets. Evening would be approaching in a few hours, and Poppy hoped they wouldn't part until late at night, savoring every moment she was spending with Rochelle. "Shall we find ourselves more to drink, then?"

  "Oui, oui," Poppy said, in her cheesiest French accent. Rochelle gave a laugh greater than the joke's worth and wove her arm into Poppy's. Poppy was relaxed enough by the wine and cider by this point not to overreact, though her heart did skip a beat, and they made their way, arms laced and feet in step, onward.

  Locked

  It was a wonderful day to be alive, in Paris, a little bit drunk, with a beautiful woman on your arm. As Poppy and Rochelle walked along to Seine River, Poppy was so filled with an internal warmth from the spirits and everything she was feeling that she didn't notice the clouds beginning to take over the sky. Rochelle was humming an unfamiliar tune; to Poppy, it was the song of the angels. As they approached a series of carts selling souvenirs, Rochelle halted, and as Poppy began apathetically perusing the postcards and other souvenirs, she noticed the oddly large selection of locks.