by Ritt, Julia
“Sure,” you nod, leaning forward already.
Outside, the landscape rolls with lush hills of green grass, patches of forest, and a sparkling sand path winds through the grounds. We stop at a steel-blue pond fringed with cattails and leaning saplings. Opposite us is the Pavillion de Musique, a glowing white marble bandstand. Drawn by its beauty, we go around the edge of the pond and up the small hill of damp grass on which it sits. A sheet of waist-high plastic prevents us from entering, so we peer inside. Silver and gold ivy is painted between the windows. Much of the interior paint is peeling, the loose strips reminding me of an artfully shredded couture gown.
We go back to the path, but soon feel drops of rain rolling down our necks and along our arms. We return to the bandstand, which has a short overhang that shelters us from the rain. I watch the rain ping on the water, its surface a rippling print of interlocking circles.
Others join us beneath the bandstand’s overhang to get out of the rain, making us move closer together to make room. You are so close I can feel your body’s warmth. Your fingertips brush lightly against mine. It almost feels like you’re caressing the back of my hand, teasing me. The lightest pressure from your fingers sends tingles through my bloodstream, their intensity increasing the longer we stand here until I am so high that I am only half-aware of our surroundings. I feel that I could be blissfully content to just stand here forever. I know, though, that in order for your hand to do more than brush against mine, we will have to move on from here until we reach a private space, namely my box. I can only imagine how wonderful it would be to feel the grace of your touch not only on my hands, but across every inch of my skin.
The rain soon slows to a drizzle. The other people with us beneath the bandstand’s hood begin to disperse. “Do you think it’s okay to go out now?” You gesture toward the path.
Although I would like to keep you close a little longer, I know my desire is not reasonable. “Sure.”
We return to the path. The air, thick with cool humidity, envelops our bodies as we make our way around the back of the bandstand and through a patch of woods. Drops of water fall from tree leaves as we brush past. Being with you in this lush, freshly wetted forest feels almost magical. I feel as though as if at any moment we might spot Pegasus shaking his wings free of raindrops or a fairy flecking drops of water from her tiny wings as she plays in a rose bush’s velvety blooms.
You aim ahead in front of me with vigor and energy. Unexpectedly, you fart—a single, clear pop from between your butt cheeks. The childish part of me thinks it’s funny, but my mother taught me that a lady ignores it when someone farts. I ignore it.
We encounter a short slope in our path, which you descend with no trouble at all, but I have a paralyzing fear of falling down so I step down the slope with tiny, pathetically cautious steps. I am afraid you will notice me lagging behind but cannot make myself go any faster. You stop no more than a couple strides away me. You sigh and shift impatiently, but say nothing. You offer to help me down. I would typically decline, but the prospect of having your hand in mine is too alluring. My hand meets yours and an ache of longing burns in my abdomen. As I step slowly down the slope, you offer reassurance, “Just take it easy. It’s okay.”
I find comfort and safety in your guidance and imagine you as my guardian lamassu, your lion chest broad, your eagle wings folded protectively over me, your large lion paws gently guiding me. Because of your aid, I am able to make it to the bottom of the slope more quickly and easily than if you were not there. You allow your hand to linger in mine for just a moment too long before releasing it.
At the end of our path through the woods I look up and see the Norman-esque village of Marie Antoinette before us. It looks almost unreal, like something that could only appear in a pop-up fairytale book. There is a large, wooden waterwheel that slowly turns, sloshing water. Each of the quaint, picture-perfect cottages are unique. One is built with warm yellow and pale brown stones, another with the wooden crossbeams exposed, and yet another built alongside a small watchtower reached by a wooden spiral staircase.
We gleefully watch emerald-headed mallards paddle toward us through the river that snakes through the grounds. Beneath the mallards, a carpet of fat carp look up at us with soulless eyes.
Following the walkways, we choose one direction or other on a whim. Along our path we encounter pens of farm animals. One pen is filled with a variety of birds—plump chickens, turkeys, and a pair of peacocks. Another pen holds fat, black-haired pigs munching on food.
Further on, brindle donkeys hee-haw and shake dust from their short, stiff manes. They trot up to us and we stroke their velveteen muzzles and run our fingers down the length of their thick, pliable ears. Directly in front of us, a pair of donkeys link their necks so their muzzles rest in the dips of each other’s backs, a touching display of donkey affection. It’s a sign! Even the donkeys know we should be more than friends. You scramble to take a photo and capture the moment in the nick of time. The caretakers carrying buckets of hay have arrived, unlocking our donkeys who clip-clop to their dinner.
Deciding we are finished with Antoinette’s domaine, we turn around to make our way back to the Petite Trianon. I think of how warm and soft the donkey’s ears were on my fingertips and am reminded of the warmth of your hand against mine. The feeling is addictive and I’m craving it already.
You turn to me with an exultant look on your face. “I know this is becoming a cliché, but this was one of my best days in Paris.”
“Me too!” I look over at you, seeing how happy you are to have spent so wonderful a day with me. Your happiness in combination with the unexpected but all-too welcome hand-holding gives me hope that you will say yes to sleeping with me tonight.
“You know, I love how you organized everything. Buying ballet tickets, now here, and warm food next. Can’t wait for that. I’m so hungry.”
I run my hand down my abdomen. “Me too. And I’m so glad to be able to share all the knowledge I’ve gained while I’ve been here. Plus, I like the control of organizing everything.”
“We work well together.” You grin, your eyes glimmering lasciviously.
“Indeed we do.” I can’t wait to get back to my apartment.
We pass a tree-bush of white hawthorn bells that look like the most intricate lace, their scent clean and light like laundry detergent. Just up ahead is the Petite Trianon, which doesn’t interest either of us much. We decide to skip it and head back through Versailles toward the exit.
As we walk through the outdoor aisles of the gardens my mind wanders to the past few evenings I’ve spent reading one of your favorite books. “I started reading Naked Lunch. So far, it seems just like an onslaught of obscene, really bizarre images and passages about obtaining and taking hard drugs. Does the drug stuff ever stop?”
“No. It’s this constant drug, nightmarish dream sequence. He even says in there ‘If you’re trying to read this in order for it to make sense, it’s not like that.’ There’s no meaning.”
“Of course there’s meaning!” I retort. “I feel like it’s designed to elicit a visceral reaction. When I read it, I feel like I’m inside the mind of someone on a drug rush. It’s obscene, grotesque, insane. How can the book be meaningless if I react so strongly to it?”
“But the prose itself has no specific meaning. There’s no logical narrative. That’s part of what made it so radical when it was published, why the classical literary world took a while to accept it as literature,” you explain. “There may be meaning in your reaction to it, but there’s none in the book, especially in the sense that there’s no story, no moralizing tale. None of that.” You move your hand firmly through the air like Professor does when he lectures.
As you speak I can feel the gears of my mind shifting, learning your fresh perspective. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.” I grin. “Not sure I agree, though. We’ll have to discuss it more once I’ve finished it.”
“Sure. I’d love that.”
&nbs
p; I have always wanted a good friend to discuss literature with, and you’re the first. Curious about how the small miracle of our meeting came to be, I ask you how you ended up taking Professor’s class.
“Well, I had decided to come to Paris to write my novel,” you say. “A lot of American writers came to Paris to write—Hemingway, Fitzgerald, a lot of the beats. So I was planning on coming to Paris for the summer, and my dad suggested that it would be easier to do it through a program. So I found this one, Abroadco. You pay them and they arrange your housing, classes—all of that. Most people go to the Sorbonne, but I picked Professors’ class at AUP. I’m glad I did.” You look to me with a grin, your chestnut eyes bright. “So, is this your last semester at AUP?”
I nod. “It is. After this I’m going to Emerson to do a Master’s in Publishing and Writing.”
“Mm. Where is Emerson?”
I wonder if you’re curious about how far away I will be from you once we’re back in the States. “It’s in Boston. I’ll visit my friend in NYC pretty frequently, though.”
On the train we plop side by side onto a pair of seats, glad for rest. Once we are back in Paris I look out the window and see puffy blue-gray clouds hanging over the buildings, promising more rain. I tell you we’ll switch to line thirteen at Invalides and get off at Saint-François-Xavier, so it’ll be no more than a minute-and-a-half walk to my building.
As we exit from Saint-François-Xavier we are greeted by a heavy drizzle. Tucking our heads against the rain, we hurry across Boulevard des Invalides and onto my street, rue de Babylone. A few doorsteps down I turn into my doorway and swiftly tap my code into the keypad. I push open the door and you follow me into the hallway.
“It really was only a minute and a half!” you say.
“Yup!” I grin, my eyes on you. My dearest, I have finally succeeded in bringing you home with me. I am so high on excitement and anticipation for the possibilities of our evening together in my box that I glide toward the second pair of doors. I quickly enter-in the code to open them. My senses are so intensified that the cool silver buttons leave a rim of cold on the pad of my pointer finger. I hold open one of the doors to let you through and you follow me to the back staircase. This staircase is wooden like the main staircase of your building, though less worn.
I climb the stairs with boundless energy and count the flights in my head as we go. Never have I been so eager to reach the top.
You begin to breathe heavily behind me. “How many more flights are there?”
“Three more. It’s not that bad,” I assure you.
“How many are there total?”
“Six.”
“There are six total? Ugh.”
At the top I wait for you. Within a few moments you arrive and I lead you down the hall and into my box. Inside are the barest of living essentials. A shower is slotted in the corner and beside it is a sink. Along the left wall is a small fridge and on it a hot plate. Above my fridge is a long shelf which holds kitchen paraphernalia; a rod attached beneath the shelf holds my silk dresses and cotton skirts. In anticipation of having you here, I have neatly stacked my books, which are normally scattered everywhere, beside my dresser and on the stool that serves as my nightstand. My bed lines the right wall and a slim path down the middle of my room leads to my small window.
I plunk my bag on the floor and prop open my umbrella to allow it to dry, its hood arching between my shower and my nightstand. You put your backpack beneath the shadow of my umbrella.
“Would you like me to dry your umbrella too?” I offer.
“No, it’s okay.” You walk over to my window and admire the view as I have so often imagined you would.
I sit on my bed and stare up at your handsome body silhouetted against the charcoal-gray rooftops. My chest is pulsating with desire. I long to run my hands down the length of your abdomen and feel your hands on my body in response. For now, though, I restrain myself. I can hardly believe you are here, in my room. I feel as though my lust is emanating from my body in hot pink clouds that wash over you and dissipate over the streets below.
You look up at something in the skyline and I notice your eyes have turned cinnamon brown in the early evening light. You gesture to it, “Look, there’s a rainbow.”
I stand up, my side brushing lightly against yours, and look over your shoulder at the rainbow arced over the dappled gray sky.
I seat myself back on my bed. “A perfect ending to a perfect day.” I say softly, hardly able to believe my own words. I never expected today would go so well.
You turn away from my window and look around for a place to sit. “Can I sit on the bed?”
I smile. “No, you’re going to have to sit on the floor.”
“Yeah, I guess there really is no other place to sit.” You settle in beside me and look around my box. “When you said ‘box’ I thought you were joking. But it is!”
“Oh, hah, no, I wasn’t joking,” I shake my head.
Before I start making our meal I offer you something to drink, but you say you’re alright. I set about cooking the chicken breast on the hot plate. “Do you want to help a little bit?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Could you open and drain the cans of corn and mushrooms into the sink?”
“Sure.” You take the cans and set about the task I have given you. Even though you are only a few feet away from me at the sink, the distance causes an ache of longing to flow through my abdomen.
When the chicken is done, I set it aside. I cook the bird’s nest rice pasta and add the chicken, mushrooms, corn, and a container of coconut milk. The final ingredient is piment—chili paste. I add a large, red dollop of it, turning the noodles pink and adding a sharp spice to the odors of warm food floating around my room.
“How much do you want? A full plate?” I ask.
“Yes,” you say. As I scoop the dish onto a plate for you I am filled with gratitude for being able to share this meal we made together. I place the plate in your hands.
“I’m going to use the bathroom before we eat,” I tell you. “It’s in the hallway. Oh, and there’s Chardonnay. Do you like Chardonnay?”
“I love Chardonnay,” you say.
“Do you want to open it?”
“Sure.”
I leave you to uncork the bottle. Upon my return I find you sitting with the wine bottle on the floor beside you, the corkscrew mired halfway into the cork. You look defeated, your head bowed like a shamed dog. I sit down next to you and look between you and the unopened bottle.
“It just doesn’t go deep enough. Story of my life,” you sigh.
My body recoils instantly at the impact of your words. I wouldn’t care whether you had a penis, but the suggestion that you might have bedroom problems is not welcome, considering how much I want to have sex with you. I want you to tell me you’re joking.
Responding to my body language you say with a laugh, “Just kidding. Don’t worry.” To emphasize your meaning, you pat my knee. With each pat, shockwaves of pleasure are sent through my body, giving me a brief but intense high so overwhelmingly pleasurable it is like a dream, separating me from reality. My vision is blurred, my breath held tightly in my lungs, my sense of touch intensified exponentially. I quickly realize, though, that if I allow this pleasurable high to continue, you will notice it. I pull myself back down to reality. I gesture to the wine bottle, “Here, let me have it.” You gladly place the bottle in my hands. I twist the corkscrew deeper into the cork and easily extract it. As I pour the wine into glasses, a light, mildly fruity odor is released that complements the odors of coconut milk and piment.
“Cheers! To poverty!” you say.
“This isn’t poverty!” I exclaim. “My room is small, but my needs are covered.”
You look around my room, reassessing your statement. “You’re right.”
Your glass meets mine with a clink I find jovial and bright in its promise of a full evening before us. We each take a sip and eagerly begin to eat.
/>
Upon your first taste of the dish you make the “mm,” sound. Just the sound of the mm’s humming in your throat gives me the loveliest pleasure, as if the mm’s are reverberating through me. “This is so good.”
“I’m so glad you like it. It’s one of my favorite meals.” Each bite I take is so delicious. Although I make this meal for myself fairly often, I have never enjoyed it so much as I do now.
“This is so good,” you repeat. “We’re good friends now.” You look between me and your plate of food. “We have to do this again before we leave.”
I’m so glad you have given me a reason to ask you to return to my box. “Certainly.”
We drink the wine quickly. The alcohol makes me feel wonderfully relaxed and woozy. I offer you more wine, which you gladly receive, and I fill my own glass as well. You soon clear your plate and cast your eyes about my room, eyeing the pot especially.
“Would you like some more?” I ask.
“Yeah, I would. If you don’t mind.”
“You’re welcome to it. Have as much as you like.” You are my very hungry caterpillar, a ravenous creature always searching for more, your image a joy for my eyes. It occurs to me that the various entities I often compare you to—the narrator of Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast, Professor, even the very hungry caterpillar—may not be as much like you as I make them out to be. Yet I cannot help but make you out to be more than you are, for I see everything in you. Even as you gather more of the Indian food onto your plate, you expose to my eyes a divinely handsome curve of your broad, finely-muscled back, reminding me of how Degas found such beauty in the nude backs of women. He painted them nude over and over as they performed such simple tasks as emerging from the bathtub or combing their hair. He was obsessive in his work. In our case, the genders are reversed—it is I the voyeur and you the subject of my hungry gaze.
Your plate again full, you return to my side on the bed and we continue to eat. Once we have both finished, you browse through my books. You pick up my copy of The History of Sexuality Vol. 1 by Michael Foucault. “Can I look at this?”