Love Me in Paris

by D Pichardo-Johansson

  On impulse, I bypass the restless line and extend a bill to the cashier asking her in French to add a croissant for me. “You must be having a hard day today,” I add in the same language, and she grunts with an eye roll, but her begrudging smile hints that she’s thankful for the acknowledgment.

  She hands me my change as well as my croissant in a paper bag, then snaps her fingers at Cute Blonde to let her know she’s holding up the line. “Bouge-toi! Bouge-toi!”

  When Cute Blonde fails to move fast enough, I place my hand on the small of her back and guide her out. She focuses on me, and the sudden rush of color to her pale cheeks betrays she remembers me. She’s trying to juggle her coffee cup, bagel, museum map, and the wallet and card she still holds from her failed transaction. All while carrying a large bag and a camera slung from her shoulder.

  I stow my croissant inside the souvenir shopping bag that holds the book and my maps and loop the bag through my arm to free my hands. “Can I help you carry any of that?” When she hesitates, I add with a simper, “Too late now; I already know you do speak English.”

  She blushes again and avoids my eyes. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to shut you down back there. It’s my first time traveling internationally, and I’ve been warned to mistrust all strangers.” She finally meets my gaze and mumbles, “Thank you. If you help me find an ATM, I’ll be happy to pay you back.”

  I wave her off. “How about instead you tell me your name? Mine is Trevor.”

  “I’m Sophia.” She tries to shake my hand but she’s carrying too much. She glances at the backless seats and tables, all occupied. “Sitting space is at a premium here, isn’t it?”

  I help her carry some of her things and gesture for her to follow me to a space against the wall. There, she consolidates her load and I lay our museum and metro maps on the floor so she can sit on them. “Here. There are few things better in the world than a picnic in a famous place where you can people-watch.”

  I debate whether to take a seat next to her, but she’s still giving me the cautious look. Since I don’t want to come across as pushy, I remain standing.

  “Thank you,” she repeats. “You’re very kind and I shouldn’t have been rude to you.”

  Despite her words, her tight, hunched shoulders and wary eyes beg me to leave. Time to go. “Well, enjoy the rest of your visit, Sophia.”

  I’m about to walk away when curiosity gets the best of me. “But before I leave, I was wondering.” I almost say never mind, but decide to go for it. “You seemed to be getting much more than me from that Canova statue. Can I ask what moved you so much?”

  Her face lights up and her shoulders relax. “It’s one of my favorite statues in the world. I love everything about it.”

  She launches into an eloquent description of the mythological story behind the sculpture that sparks my curiosity, so I open the pictures I took with my cell phone after she left. On my phone screen, she points at details I would’ve never noticed by myself. How Psyche’s arms form a frame for their faces. How the feathers on Eros’ extended wings are so finely carved, you can guess their transparency. (6) Before I know it, I’m sitting on the floor next to her studying the photos. Yes, I’m also doing it as a way of flirting, shooting to see what happens. But I don’t have to work hard to sound interested, because I am.

  We arrive at the end of my photo stream and the wall comes back up. I can feel her tensing as she takes the first sip of her coffee.

  “Wow!” she exclaims. “This coffee is amazing!”

  I can’t help smiling. “Of course it is. You’re in Paris now, honey. They don’t serve Folgers here.”

  “I’ve heard coffee is better in Europe, but I thought it couldn’t be so different.”

  I snicker, moved by her naivete. “That’s like trying to compare American ice cream to French glace or Italian gelato. Or like comparing the inflated, tasteless dough they sell in America to a real croissant.”

  “It’s not the same?”

  I can’t believe her. This woman is like a virgin of European pleasures. “Oh, dear, you’re in for a big treat!” I eye her bagel. “Which leads me to ask, how come you’re buying a bagel in Paris? Everyone knows you haven’t arrived here until you have a croissant.” I search my souvenir bag, removing the book in the process, and pull out my croissant, still wrapped in a paper bag and a napkin. “Here. You have to take a bite.”

  “No, thank you.” She waves a hand. “I’m fine with—”

  “Uh-uh, I insist,” I interrupt, breaking off a piece by holding it with the napkin. “You’ve been sold a misrepresentation of croissants all your life.”

  In a flirty move, I shove the little piece in her mouth and she has no choice but to chew.

  And then a transformation occurs. As she chews the bread, she moans in pleasure; her eyes roll back before she closes them; her face transfigures to the image of ecstasy.

  “Oh my God! This is unbelievable!” she mutters. “The crispy exterior, the incredibly inner softness. The buttery explosion of flavor in my mouth!” She slowly licks her lips, and a sudden restlessness invades me—heat flooding me below the belt.

  Damn it. If that’s the face she makes for a bite of croissant, I’m dying to see her having sex.

  Suddenly overheated, I remove my black jacket, getting down to my dark gray T-shirt. “I can’t wait to see you have your first French—real—crepe or quiche.”

  Her eyes dart away from my biceps; she was totally checking me out. I’m glad I’ve kept that outrageous gym membership going. But soon her guarded posture returns. “I… I’d better go.”

  She rushes to rise from the floor and I imitate her. When I stand up, Chrissie’s book falls from my lap onto the floor.

  Sophia picks it up for me and when her eyes lift from it, they’re gleaming with surprise and curiosity. “I know this book!” Her eyelashes flutter.

  Who doesn’t? The freaking book is everywhere. We’re about to part ways and this might be my last chance to send her an insinuation that I’m open for business.

  “Yeah.” I chuckle, faking shyness, and blurt the usual joke. “I took the self-vow of celibacy.”

  The shock on her face is exactly what I was going for.

  I’m about to deliver the punch line, Want to help me break it? when she exclaims, “Oh my God, I did too!”

  I freeze. This might not be the best time to make fun of that book after all. “You did?”

  “Yes! Actually the author of this book is one of my best friends in the world!”

  Yup, definitely not a good idea to dis the book.

  Sophia’s eyes dash to my wrist and she gasps. Shit. I’m still wearing the thread bracelet Luke put on me—the one that supposedly advertises I’m giving up sex for a year in exchange for some noble cause.

  “I can’t believe this coincidence! My three best friends and I started following the fast six months ago!” The bracelet on my wrist must’ve instantly marked me safe, because she sits back on the floor, fully relaxed. It’s like me carrying this book with me—and her belief I actually read it—has instantly graduated me from potential criminal to lifelong friend.

  Steering away from the topic of the book, I start asking her questions. Before I know it, we’re sharing my croissant while she tells me everything about her little town in Indiana and her work as a high school history teacher. She’s not only cute but also extremely likable. I almost don’t mind that I painted myself into a corner and I’ll never be able to hit on her.

  Feeling a little guilty for nearly making fun of something she takes so seriously, I give her my finest pearls of wisdom about the city and she takes notes on her cell, delighted. In exchange, she answers my questions about other art pieces I’ve photographed today.

  “You should specialize in ‘Art for Dummies’ or something like that,” I offer on the way out, as we cross the French sculptures garden under high glass ceilings. (10) “If you could make me care about this museum, you can teach art appreciation to wild beasts.” />
  “Actually, that’s a challenge I’m about to take,” she softly smiles. “I’m starting a summer project with at-risk youth, teaching them art appreciation in exchange for extra history credit in remedial summer school.”

  Impressed by her kind heart, I’m glad I shut up before insulting her friend and her book.

  As we stroll toward the glass pyramid exit, she eyes the bag where the croissant used to be and guesses. “You’re having bread and coffee again, so you must be at least in your third month of the fast. Right?”

  Shit.

  I hope she doesn’t try to ask me any questions about the vow book. “More or less.” Trying to deflect the attention from me, I ask, “What did you re-introduce first?’

  “Internet and coffee—I had to. And then sweets and different foods. My most recent re-introduction was wine, but I don’t care much for it.”

  My eyes flick to the orange and green thread bracelet on her wrist. “So you started the Ultimate Challenge six months ago?” My real question is, So… six more months to go without sex? Damn it. As likable as Sophia is, I have to rule her out for company. “Has the celibacy part been hard to keep that long?”

  She turns a little pink. “I, uh, I guess I’m used to it.”

  Imagining all the repressed sexual energy she’s been packing inside for months, ready to be unleashed, I’m turned on in the weirdest way. Is Luke right? Could it be true that she’s wordlessly crying for help, begging me to free her from her own taboos and help her break that vow?

  And is it true that it will then be the most mind-blowing night of our lives? That the status of forbidden is the best aphrodisiac in the world?

  It’s been a long time since I had a project, even longer since I’ve cared about one. But at this moment, as I stare into her bright blue eyes, all I can think of is having her in my bed, making the exact same face she made when she took a bite from my croissant.

  I have a new project.

  I have to save this woman from her vow.

  Chapter 4

  Sophia

  My second day in Paris has been exhausting. I’ve spent half the time challenging my out-of-shape body by walking my feet off, and the other half practicing extreme sedentary behavior, sitting on top of a hop-on, hop-off tour bus. The late spring weather has been bipolar. All morning I was freezing; now I’ve been burning hot since the day finally warmed up and my coat became too much.

  I return to my hotel room, take off my sandals and collapse in bed, resting my throbbing feet. The moment I recover Wi-Fi I get an iMessage from George, my ex-fiancé, asking me to call him. Dread churns my stomach. Even now that we’re no longer together, he tends to be overprotective and a little controlling. But he’s also been a friend and coworker for years and deserves some reply.

  Roaming charges are ridiculous, so I’ve followed Mia’s advice to leave my phone on Airplane mode, turning Wi-Fi on to connect when available—though I haven’t had much luck finding it outside my hotel. Rather than calling, I decide to email George and find out he’s already sent me another of his long emails.

  “I apologize if I was unsupportive of you taking this trip at first,” he says after obligatory greetings and nuisances. Unsupportive is a mild word. When he found out about my travel plans, he nearly burst an artery, convinced I’d be robbed and killed the minute I stepped off the plane.

  “I won’t chastise you anymore. I now understand this is something you need to do to find yourself. And I hope that, when you do, you’ll be in a better position to resume our conversation.”

  Resume our conversation. Translation: come back to my senses about that crazy decision to break our engagement.

  I send him a short reply to reassure him that I arrived safely and, on impulse, check his Instagram page. He’s been tagged in a handful of pictures from the latest school field trip to a farm, and his thin smile stretches wider than usual in one where he hands a student a baby goat. He’s not bad looking, tall and slim, bearded and with benign brown eyes. He’s also a kind man and his science students love him. I feel bad I hurt him by ending our engagement. It’s not his fault I’ve seemingly gone insane in the past year; besides sheltering me too much, he’s never done anything to hurt me.

  His only sin was that he didn’t look at me the way I remember my father looking at my mother. His only fault was not making my heart sing.

  Am I a selfish witch for wanting more than the stability he offered me?

  It’s already six p.m. here in Paris—noon in American Eastern Time. Like every week for the past six months, I join the Skype conference call with Iris, Chloe, and Mia. I wish I had my laptop with me and could see their faces bigger than the tiny images on my cell phone screen.

  “Girls! You’re together!” I wave at Chloe and Mia sharing a screen. I’d forgotten that Mia was traveling to Chicago from LA to promote her new summer fashion line.

  “Yes! And it’s freaking freezing here in Chicago!” Mia leans closer to the computer screen, but Chloe pulls her arm, stopping her. She has all sorts of theories about the potentially dangerous vibrations emitted by electronics.

  After a few greetings, I blurt out, “Chloe, you’ll never believe the croissant I had yesterday!” In college, Chloe and I shared a passion for baked goods, so she’ll understand.

  “Oh no, I don’t have anything with butter anymore.” Chloe waves a long-fingered hand. “I’m trying to become a vegan.”

  Mia clicks her tongue and tugs on Chloe’s long, dark braid. “Yeah, you know. Because being a vegetarian who drinks only alkaline water is not eccentric enough for her.” She rolls her eyes.

  Chloe elbows Mia in punishment. “Eccentric? Says the woman who once walked a catwalk wearing aluminum foil underwear, a mosquito-net dress and a bird’s nest for a hat.”

  Mia whips her lustrous ombre waves and playfully pushes Chloe’s shoulder. “It’s called ‘high fashion,’ you uncouth woman.”

  Iris joins the conference call last and, as usual, my heart warms at the sight of her. She and I have been friends since grade school, long before we met Mia and Chloe in college—they’d gone to school together. Despite months of intense chemo dulling her previously glowing skin, Iris’ smile on the screen is still radiant. I’ve never met someone braver than her.

  Witnessing Iris’ treatment in the past months has been an education. I used to think cancer was an automatic death sentence and that people on chemo were miserable, bedridden, and throwing up their guts all day long. Iris has corrected my impression. Besides those couple of scares with low blood counts and having to take off from work the Friday after each dose to sleep off the fatigue, she’s done amazing.

  “Iris, look at you, so cute! Is that a new wig?” Chloe asks.

  “Yes! Do you like it?” She wiggles her head making her red curls bounce. Last week she was platinum blonde. And the week before she wore a purple wig.

  We always allow Iris to go first and give us an update on her treatment. By now I’m an expert on words I couldn’t even pronounce before, such as “carboplatin,” “docetaxel” and “something-something-tuzumab.” We’re all delighted to hear the chemo has worked so well the doctors had trouble finding the tumor at Iris’ last ultrasound appointment.

  “Surgery is this Wednesday.” Iris’ casual tone could be describing a dentist appointment rather than cancer surgery.

  “What? I’m gonna kill you!” Mia shakes a fist at the camera. “I told you to give me at least two weeks’ notice so I could clear my schedule!”

  “Yes!” Chloe joins the protest with a groan, fiddling with her multiple crystal bracelets. “I have to re-schedule patients.”

  “Relax, girls, Mom will be here. I don’t want you to come the first week, when I’ll be still drugged on pain meds and unable to move,” Iris explains. “I want you to come later on, when I can enjoy your visit.”

  “But I’m going to miss it either way; I just got here!” I whimper. It saddens me that I won’t be there to spend the night in the hospita
l with Iris like I’d planned. When I originally booked this month-long trip to Paris, I estimated that Iris would be done with her surgery by now. When two of her treatments got delayed due to blood count issues, the dates were postponed.

  “Don’t you worry about that!” Iris dismisses my concern with the flick of her hand. “I’m thrilled you’re there. Please tell us everything about your trip so far!”

  Unanimously, the girls vote me to go next. I quickly share my first experience on a transatlantic flight—thank God for Mia, the expert traveler, who’d recommended Ambien, and for Chloe, the doctor who’d prescribed it. Then, I share my first impressions of the city, starting with my soul-shaking tour of the Louvre, and the less successful sightseeing frenzy from the top of the hop-on hop-off bus.

  “Did you make it to the Eiffel Tower already?” asks Chloe.

  “That was the first place I headed to today, but the lines were so long I gave up and decided to return some other time. You were right, Mia! It’s prettier than pictures show. Its arches look like copper or bronze colored lace.” (11, 12) Mia has been in Europe more times than all of us combined—she toured tirelessly as a model and still tours as a designer.

  I continue, “Everything here is so ridiculously beautiful my brain has gone slower and clumsier, trying to process it all.”

  “Ezra would say you have too many programs running and have overloaded the RAM in your operating system,” Mia points out with a giggle.

  I suddenly miss Ezra, the computer genius and fifth “sister” in our college gang; I haven’t seen him in years, except through the screen.

  “Everything here takes a brain adjustment—like needing coins to use the public restrooms, and getting used to the toilet flush button being on the wall, or the ceiling, or the floor, and not on the toilet. Everything is so expensive! And not speaking the language is so overwhelming.” As I say the words, I realize I’m already homesick.

  My gaze travels to my Louvre map, lying on the nightstand, and the Metro directions Trevor scribbled on its back. I didn’t think I’d accept his invitation to meet his American friends at his place, but today I do look forward to speaking English for an evening. And after the sticker shock from breakfast, lunch, and coffee, a free dinner doesn’t sound bad.