by Ritt, Julia
We stack our silver and gold coins onto the table in exchange for the second pitcher. I pour us each a glass.
You look into your freshly filled cup before taking a sip. “Look there’s ice!”
“I know. It’s to keep it chilled in the barrel.”
“Yeah, but you can’t find ice anywhere in Paris,” you sigh.
“Ice just isn’t really part of the culture here the way it is in the States.” I pause, wondering how well you know the French language. “So how’s your French?”
“It’s not good enough to have a meaningful conversation. I could talk about what I like to do and what I don’t, but nothing of real substance. And it’s not like the woman at the boulangerie or the guy on the street wants to stop and try to talk to me.”
“It can be hard to find people to talk to in French. It requires constant determination. How many years of French have you had?”
“Two.”
I nod, thinking that two years of French would provide you with the ability to talk about basic subjects like sports and your favorite foods, but not much more. “I can have a meaningful conversation in French. My French isn’t perfect, but I can find a way around saying anything I want to say. It might take longer, but I get there.”
“That’s good.” You grin, your eyes on me with a look of admiration.
The more we talk, the more I feel as if I’ve known you for years rather than days. Talking to you feels so natural, as if there are endless subjects we may have meaningful, interesting conversations about. You also like to talk—you like to talk even more than I do. For a moment, I stop listening to your individual words and simply nod and smile, taking pleasure in your company.
“July fourth is coming up, Friday I think,” you say.
I hear this with sharp ears, for the fourth of July provides an opportunity for us to see each other again soon. “We should get hot dogs and celebrate.”
Your face illuminates at the thought of spending the American holiday in Paris with a fellow American—moi. “We should.”
I grin coquettishly. “It’s a very American-in-Paris thing to do.”
We empty the pitcher and set off into the fresh air of midnight with a warm buzz flowing through our bloodstreams.
“So you really don’t think Megan Fox is attractive?” you ask.
“No, I do, just . . . she needs a bath. She needs to be washed. And I’d be happy to do it.” I move my hand as if running a wet, soapy washcloth over her body.
“She’s so perfectly tan, mm, those lips!”
When we reach the island of pavement at Odéon you say something I never expected to hear. “This was my best night in Paris since I’ve been here. I mean, I’ve done things with other people from my program, but this was so much better.” You look at me and smile. “Of course, I liked the sangria more.”
I am so touched to hear you say this. It gives me hope that you might come to like me, too. Even if not, at least arranging to spend time with you should be easier than it has been. I feel I have successfully shared with you a small part of what really living here is like—just seeing a movie and having a drink with good company afterward. This is the Paris you fall hopelessly, completely in love with, a Paris that will live forevermore within you. I hope the Paris you take with you when you leave will include how you enjoyed my company here. I know you are already ingrained in my Paris. The bliss I find in living here is intensified exponentially by your presence. Like Paris, you are beautiful and bring new meaning to my understanding of the subjects dearest to me. Unlike my beloved city, you are a person with whom I may share my time here. For now, though, I am determined to not say anything that might make you suspect I like you. All I say is, “I’m glad! I really enjoyed it too. Although, I think I liked Transformers better.”
“Oh . . .” You bow your head.
I know it is truly vicious of me to say I preferred the closeness of our bodies in the movie theater to the lively conversation over drinks that followed. In truth, my favorite part of the evening was when you said you would join me for a drink. You said yes—that yes was my glee.
I don’t want to part from you this evening, but I know I soon will. To prolong our time together for five, maybe ten minutes more, I claim to need a landmark to direct my way home even though I know how to get home from here. “Rue Saint-Jacques is this way, isn’t it?” I point up ahead of us. “As long as it’s down there, I’ll know where I am.”
“Yes, it’s this way.”
The métro is closed since it’s after midnight so I will have to walk home, an hour’s walk from here. I run my eyes along the shops’ burglar-proof gates made of interlocking waves of metal, thinking that I have never before walked through Paris at this hour by myself. If your manners were more refined you would ask me to text or call you when I arrive home, but I feel this is something I will need to teach you the next time we see each other. I rummage through my memories of friends who have been mugged in Paris, attempting to determine how much potential danger I might be in. “You know, all the people I know who have been mugged in Paris are guys, actually.”
“So maybe I should be worried . . .”
I look at you for a moment, my handsome dear walking in the shadows. I think of how I would love to walk you home, but you are intelligent enough to avoid trouble. “Naw, I think you’ll be alright.”
As we near closer to the moment of parting with every step, I wonder how we will say goodbye. Simply heading off into the night with a mere wave is, by now, too impersonal. I often do bisous (a kiss on each cheek) with my European friends, but we’re both American, so bisous wouldn’t be appropriate. All I want is to kiss you. That doesn’t seem right either, considering you have a girlfriend.
A block before Saint-Jacques, the street you live on, you turn right. I stop, confused as to why you are turning early. “But Saint-Jacques is down there.” I point toward it.
“It’s faster this way.”
“Oh. But Saint-Jacques is down there?” I ask, feigning dumb. From here I can see the shop filled with miniature Pokéman and Star Wars figures that marks the intersection of Saint-Jacques and Saint-Germain.
“Yeah.”
So here we part. You pop your arms from your sides, inviting me into them. You want to hug me. It’s the simplest, friendliest gesture I hadn’t even thought of because my mind was so focused on my desire to kiss you. I walk into your arms and you rest your solid limbs in the curve of my back, pressing your warm chest to mine. You smell like soft, freshly washed cotton with hints of vanilla and winter evergreen. I would be so happy to stay in your embrace longer, but you pull back and turn toward home.
“Goodnight! Get home safely!” I call to you.
“You too! Good night!” you call back.
I turn down Saint-Jacques toward the Seine, which will guide my way home. As I walk I imagine you walk with me, a protective presence by my side. Even the thought of having you with me sends sparkles of excitement through my limbs, making Paris appear so much more beautiful than if I felt alone. The bridges over the Seine are silver-gray in the cloak of night. Across the Pont de la Concord the Hotel de Crillon is arranged with neat rows of Corinthian columns lit with golden orbs of light. As I pass the Musée d’Orsay I imagine the animal statues bounding about the courtyard. The rhino playfully butts the horse’s flanks while the elephant loops his trunk around the rhino’s thick leg. I turn down l’Esplanade des Invalides and inhale the delicate fragrance of the summer flowers flourishing within Invalides’ garden. By the time I arrive chez moi my body is weary from the long walk and I am glad to crawl into bed. I fall asleep thinking of you.
I dream that, along with many other couples, we are flying around the Église d’Invalides, our bodies intertwined so that we are held together as we circle the upper realms of the dome. Because of the way our bodies are intertwined your hand is pressed firmly between my thighs. Although it doesn’t seem your hand should need to be there in order for us to be held together, the pr
essure feels fantastic. “You know your hand is—” I say, unable to finish the sentence, as thinking of exactly where your hand is causes a rush of pleasure to run through my body, shutting off my speech. You look at me and smile in response as if silently asking, “Do you want me to remove it?” I respond as if you had spoken the words. “No, of course not, it just feels—” I’m again unable to finish my sentence. Another rush of pleasure is running through my body, its source stemming from the steady pressure of your hand.
With the arrangement of our intertwined bodies agreed upon, we enjoy our airborne view of the Baroque masterpiece. The walls are a bright, shimmering white and the giant statues of winged women in Grecian robes surrounding Napoléon’s tomb appear even more magnificent from our aerial view than I remember them being when I have viewed them from the ground. A group of sea-foam green marble peacocks decorate a statue’s base. They snap their beaks and lift their wings while we admire them, warning us that they are not to be touched, only looked at.
Once the dream has ended I spontaneously wake up and briefly think over how beautiful and unusual my dream was. I have had dreams where I am flying before, but never with someone else. Hoping I might see you again in my dreams, I fall back asleep with you on my mind.
This time I dream I’m walking through an office building. All of the walls and furniture are white, void of color. Everyone I see is seated behind a desk, quietly muttering to no one in particular. I walk into a room and find you talking to your girlfriend. She has shiny, black, bobbed hair, a slim yet well-fleshed figure, and is shorter than you. She is stylishly attired and has large blue eyes.
A thin screen blocks my body from your view so neither of you can see me, but I can see you. You are asking for her permission to cheat on her—with me, specifically. She laughs, thinking it hilarious of you to propose it. It’s unthinkable that you might cheat on her—you’re too good. You do not laugh with her, conveying you are serious about your request. Pain and anger show on her face and at seeing how your request has hurt her your expression saddens. I feel the need to leave. Despite how much I would like to use the knowledge I might gain about your relationship to my advantage by staying in this room longer, I know the rest of this conversation is not for me to hear. I leave the room and continue walking until the dream fades away.
Upon waking up, I analyze my two dreams, which are perfect metaphors for how I respond to you. The first conveys how close I feel to you as well as the extreme beauty and sense of freedom I find in spending time with you that I have never experienced with anyone else. Also, just being near you turns me on. You seem to enjoy this, or at least you don’t mind. The second dream illustrates how I perceive there to be sexual tension between us that cannot—or should not—be expressed while you are committed to your girlfriend. Although I have no feelings toward your girlfriend as a person, as I know nothing about her, I wish with every grain of my existence that you were single. If your girlfriend were not in your life, it would be possible for us to be together. There would be no question of cheating. As things are, you do have a girlfriend. The thought of being unable to sleep with you because you have a girlfriend pains me greatly, but the thought of becoming a home wrecker and losing your friendship pains me even more. I promise myself that I will not meddle in your relationship. I should think of you as my friend only, nothing more.
This promise to myself doesn’t last long, though, for my next thought is of how I long to see you again. I can’t help but hope romance of any sort might develop between us in the coming weeks.
CHAPTER 9
She is tucked inside your pocket. It is very warm and she can hear your heart beating
I spend the day after our evening together with Lady. I update her on what is going on between you and me. She insists that if I offer it to you, you would have sex with me. “Just be sure he knows that’s all you want, just sex, no worries about his being taken,” she advises. “No man would refuse it.” Perhaps Lady is right. You did, after all, flirt with me yesterday. You even told me I have a beautiful body. Even so, I do not think your attraction to me is yet strong enough to incite you to cheat on your girlfriend. But things are progressing in that direction.
Near the end of the conversation Lady also fortuitously tells me that there are fireworks in Paris on the Fourth of July. Although I know Lady is probably mixing up Bastille Day and the Fourth of July, suggesting the possibility of fireworks to you would be an excellent way to ensure your time tomorrow will be set aside for me alone.
Later that evening, I rest my forearms on my windowsill and look out over the dusty silver rooftops streaked with the day’s final rays of sunlight. I hold my cell phone in my palm, preparing myself for calling you. I know we will only see each other tomorrow to celebrate the Fourth of July if I contact you to arrange the details. I should probably be irritated that I am always the one to initiate our meetings, but I’m becoming accustomed to it. My mind is calm.
You answer my call with “Hey,” your voice pleasantly warm.
“Hey! I was wondering if we’re still on for hot dogs on the Fourth of July tomorrow. Lady said there are fireworks on Champs de Mars in the evening and everyone goes down, drinks throughout the day.” Between my words I hear female laughter and background noise that makes me think you are outdoors. I imagine you sitting on a gingham picnic blanket, enjoying the sight of the girls, their cleavage alluringly exposed as they giggle and tipsily play with one another.
“I’m up for that, definitely up for that. I’m with some girls from my program right now, but I’m just about to leave . . . how about I call you tomorrow at ten?”
“In the morning?” I think it’s unlikely you will get up so early to call me, but since you have set the time yourself, I decide not to argue. “Sounds good. See you tomorrow!”
“Peace.”
The following morning, I wake up shortly after ten. As I suspected, you haven’t yet called, but I want to be dressed when you do.
I select my outfit with the intention of both pleasing your eye and corseting my torso. I want to be a little uncomfortable to give myself a constant physical reminder that I must pin in my desires while I am with you. My dress is patterned with elegant black-and-white stripes and heavily gathered at the waist so that it poufs away from my body, giving my silhouette an exaggerated hourglass shape. I arrange my silk balconette bra dyed a deep marbled rose so that it teasingly pokes up from my strapless dress when I move. My dress’ bodice fits my torso like a glove and the seams are lined with metal strips that press against my abdomen. I imagine that at the end of our day together, in the privacy of my room or yours, you hold the hot weight of your body near mine and slowly unzip my dress. As you move the dress away from my body, you press your lips to the mauve imprints running down my abdomen caused by my bodice’s metal bones, the care imparted from your lips like a healing poultice.
While waiting for you to call I look out my window onto Paris’ quiet streets. It’s just another slow, sunny summer day. None of the French are excited about it being America’s Independence Day.
By 11:45 you still haven’t called, so I decide to call you myself, but you aren’t answering. I begin to phone you in about fifteen minute intervals (not too exact, lest you suspect the obsessive meticulousness of my attempts to reach you). You finally answer at 12:34.
“Hey, I was sleeping.” Your words slur together, sticky with sleep. “Thank you for letting me sleep.”
“Oh, no problem.” I don’t want you to think I am upset you kept me waiting for over two hours. “What time should we meet?”
We agree to meet in an hour at the Monop’ on Saint-Michel to buy groceries before heading to your place. I am so thrilled to know for certain we will be seeing each other today that I forget about how long I had to wait to get in touch with you.
Two arrondissements across Paris I walk up Saint-Michel, thinking how I may seek you among Monop’s aisles of mustard and wine.
When I arrive, you are not inside. Opp
osite the entrance, I find you leaning against a slender tree. Upon seeing me you stand up and move toward me, lifting one cheek in a half smile. Your chestnut eyes rove up and down my body, gleaming with lustful thoughts.
We go into the grocery store.
Grocery stores in Paris are tiny, so the aisles are almost always narrow. We press ourselves against jars of olives and boxes of cereal to squeeze by fellow shoppers as we pick out the ingredients for our Fourth of July lunch: a pack of hot dogs, a baguette, a jar of Dijon mustard, and two liters of Belgian beer.
We put our items on the cashier’s counter. I secretly hope you might offer to pay. If you do, it would make this seem more like a first date. The total comes to €8.63.
You turn to me and say, “I’ll get this. My treat.”
Your words flood my chest with joy. “Thank you! I’ll pay you back . . . somehow.”
“You can pay me back with . . . escargots!”
“Escargots! That would be more than eight euros.” It is essential to me that I have control over how I pay you back. I intend to use this debt as a reason for us to again spend time together soon.
“Yeah. I was trying to think of something of similar value.”
“We’ll figure it out,” I assure you.
You pick up the bags. I offer to carry one, but you insist on carrying them yourself, a gentlemanly gesture I appreciate. We head up Saint-Michel, enjoying the beautiful perspective views created by the flat, classically unified building facades.
“It’s the Fourth of July. No one gives a shit in Paris,” you sigh.
“Yes, I read your status this morning. ‘It’s the Fourth of July, no one gives a fuck in Paris,’” I quote.
You put your disappointment aside in favor of a brighter thought. “You know how after you’ve been traveling, you’re tired, and you’ve had fun, but all you want to do is be home? When I went to Vienna and then came back, Paris was that home. It’s different, but it was nice—to come home to Paris.”