Two Americans in Paris

by Ritt, Julia

  “Sure,” you say. “I’ll call you tomorrow and we’ll figure something out.”

  We come to a fork in our paths where Lady and I will head to the RER B stop by Notre Dame and you will head up Saint-Jacques.

  “Let me know if you want to do something later tonight,” you say.

  Your words cause a surge of desire to pulse through me. I don’t want to part from you yet. If we part here, I doubt we will meet up again this evening. “Wait. Why don’t we just go the sangria bar. I mean, we could just walk.”

  “Walk?” Lady exclaims.

  “Yes, it’s ten, fifteen minutes from here,” I tell her.

  “Fifteen minutes?” she exclaims.

  “Yes, dear, you’ll make it,” I assure her. “We could invite Padd,” I suggest to you. The truth, though, is I don’t actually want Padd to come, too. I want as few other people with us as possible. In order to be a good friend, though, I feel I should encourage your roommate to socialize with us, even if my doing so is disingenuous. My desire to be a good friend, and my commitment to it, is as genuine and good an intention as I have. I am willing to put aside my personal desires in favor of yours, and that, in my opinion, is beautiful and true.

  “Sure. It is right nearby.” You text Padd to invite him to meet us at the bar.

  We stroll down rue Lagrange and turn onto Saint-Germain, following your lead. Dusk is falling over Paris, making the city even more gorgeous, like a lover lit by candlelight. Gauzy grays fill the shadows of the trees that line the sidewalks, marbled blues appear in side streets, and soft, penumbral plums shade the undersides of awnings. As we enter le bar dix, evening’s velvety dark looms from the end of rue de l’Odéon.

  The bar is filled with young people. Their lively conversations give the bar an atmosphere of bubbling camaraderie. There are no empty tables. We greet the bartender and he says he will seat us downstairs. We carefully follow him down a spiral staircase with such tiny, narrow steps that I wonder if it was once used as a secret passageway.

  At the base of the stairs we find ourselves in a room that reminds me of what an opium den might be like. The walls and floor are made of dark, polished wood and on the back wall is a tangled wreath of wooden vines. Soft, yellow-orange light glows from iron-wrought sconces, and there are only seats on the outer edges of the basement, leaving a big, open space in the middle. Probably the middle is left open to accommodate larger parties and dancing, but it is far more interesting to consider that it could also be used for cult gatherings, drug trades, or the échangiste sex clubs that are very popular in Paris.

  We choose to sit at a table in the back corner, where we can observe the entirety of the room. I notice a few metal “Ne Pas Fumer” signs nailed to the wall, which dampen the illicit vibe that probably makes people want to smoke.

  You look around in awe. “This is awesome.”

  “It’s a pity these no-smoking signs . . .” I say, searching for a fitting descriptor. “Ruin it,” you fill-in for me. My eyes meet yours and we smile, but your eyes quickly flicker away.

  The bartender sets a clay pitcher of sangria on our table in exchange for three euros from each of us. You fill our glasses and just as we have begun to drink, Padd appears on the staircase, trying his best to appear to be going down the steps without difficulty.

  “Padd you came!” I greet him.

  “Hey,” he says. I introduce him to Lady. He sits half on the inside of our circle and half outside, the body language of being ill at ease. We get him a glass.

  The conversation quickly turns to sex. Lady is especially open about her sex life—much more so than usual, but I don’t give it much thought. Sex is such an interesting subject and I’m happy to discuss it.

  “It would have been a few weeks since we’d had sex,” Lady says. “So my boyfriend would sit me down and ask me, ‘What’s wrong? Why aren’t we having sex?’ I would tell him ‘Oh. You want to have sex? Let’s do it.’”

  “Sometimes you just have to talk about it!” I say.

  “Absolutely,” Lady agrees. She continues the sex conversation in another direction. “I’ve dealt with a lot of sperm in my life. Though my one boyfriend would be doing coke and then he would be all horny and I wouldn’t want to.” She shakes her head disapprovingly.

  “Coke-sex is supposedly like Gabriel and Mary came down from heaven and had angel sex.” You gesture your hands as though illustrating their heavenly descent, the whites of your eyes gleaming brightly.

  “Really?” I ask. If what you say is true, I would like to try coke-sex one day. Preferably with you.

  You nod, “Supposedly.”

  “Have you ever tried coke?” I ask.

  You haven’t, but Lady says “Yes.”

  My mouth gapes open. I didn’t know Lady had ever tried a hard drug. It adds a new dimension to her personality—a hint of danger, edginess, a willingness to adventure into the illicit, if given the right context. “What? When?”

  “My boyfriend was always doing it, so I wanted to try it, to know what he was going through,” she explains. “I didn’t like it.” She shakes her head and makes an “ew, gross” face.

  While we’ve been talking you have barely looked at me, avoiding even a glance in my direction. You’re rather engrossed in Lady’s stories, though, so I decide to share my own. “My ex—he’s an asshole, so I wouldn’t date him again, but I still sleep with him. It’s totally fine.”

  “Yes, exactly!” Lady agrees. “If they’re assholes you just have sex with them.”

  I am a little surprised Lady so bluntly agrees. I’m not proud of myself for having sex with someone who treats me disrespectfully, although I will probably continue to do so for a while. It’s a little degrading, in the sense that I’m willing to settle for less than what I want because I have been unable to find anyone I like better who wants me, too. I wonder if Lady is saying this not because she believes it, but to insinuate that you and I should sleep together.

  You, however, are thrilled to hear two attractive women openly express complete willingness to sleep with men who are assholes. “Padd, are you taking notes?” you ask him, your eyes wide with excitement.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Padd says, unimpressed.

  My knees knock against yours under the table. I want to leave my knee against yours, but I pull my leg away, not wanting you to think I wish our knees remained touching. As we continue talking, I touch Lady’s forearm intermittently. I hope you will see me do so and wish I touched your arms in the same way.

  “My boyfriend would want a blowjob and I would tell him I’m not good at them,” Lady says. “He would say ‘Giving a blowjob is like pizza. Even when it’s not that good, it’s good.’”

  “I’ll have to remember that,” I say.

  “The pizza? Or the other?” you ask with an inquisitive look in your eye, your head tilted toward me, your hand moving as if between the options.

  “That blowjobs are just good.” I feel a swell of warm pleasure in my abdomen as I think of how pleased you will be to hear it.

  Your response is instant and visceral. You bring your fist to your open mouth and make a twisting motion as though taking a penis into your mouth. As you perform this motion, your eyes are half-hooded, fastened on me. Your knee knocks with mine and you let it stay. The pressure sends warm rushes of tingly pleasure through my leg and settles between my thighs. It is the first time today you have looked at or touched me for more than a moment. That this attention is connected to fantasizing about a blowjob is both flattering and, quite frankly, a little offensive. I have a lot more to offer you than a blowjob. Though I would enjoy giving you one.

  “You’ve got too much teeth in there,” I tell you. I want you to think a fine technique informs my advice.

  You shake your head, “Well . . . I wouldn’t know.”

  Continuing the conversation, Lady says, “For me, sex is dirty.”

  “Really?” I ask.

  “Yes, the sheets have to be cleaned.” She pinches her fi
ngers together as if she were lifting up freshly stained sheets and wrinkles her nose.

  “Alright so we’ve got ‘I’ve dealt with a lot of sperm in my life.’ and ‘Sex is dirty.’” You grin, your eyes bright and fixed on Lady.

  At seeing your interest in Lady peak, I decide there has been enough sex-talk for the evening. “Oh, Lady just applied for an internship with Roots & Shoots in Tanzania!”

  Your eyes widen and your mouth gapes open. “Tanzania? What will you be doing there?”

  “Teaching kids, helping the animals, you know.” She makes a circling motion over the table.

  “The only thing I know about Africa is whatever Barbara Kingsolver wrote in Poisonwood Bible,” I say.

  “I refuse to read that book,” you say. “My mom is obsessed with it. Is it any good?”

  I nod, “I think so. I enjoyed it. I had to read it for class.”

  “Well, I’m probably never going to read it. Maybe one day, though, Maybe one day.” You grin cheekily.

  We continue chatting and soon the sangria pitcher is empty, drawing the evening to a close.

  Out on the street the air is so fresh and cool around us I imagine we are a bonded pod of sailboats setting sail into the night.

  We say goodbye at the Opéra stop, where Lady and I will catch the bus. You pop your arms from your side, in the same manner as you did when we first said goodbye to each other after our evening at the sangria bar, and briefly embrace Lady. You turn toward me and extend your arms, inviting me into them. Any jealousy I have felt in seeing you embrace Lady falls away as I walk into your arms and feel your warm weight. Being so close to you fills my lungs with your intoxicating and comforting scent—moist spring soil mixed with evergreen and a hint of vanilla.

  You untangle your arms from around my waist and return to Padd. “Text me when you get home!”

  “Will do!” I say.

  Before turning around to walk with Lady to the bus stop, I pause to watch you walk off with Padd, your form draped with shadows from the soft yellow glow of the streetlamps.

  Lady and I sit and the bus stop and chat while we wait.

  “I think he likes you,” Lady says.

  “What? Why?”

  “When he was talking about giving a blowjob, he was looking at you.”

  “Yeah, and that was just about the only time he looked at me the entire night,” I point out.

  “I talked a lot about sex because I thought tonight would be the night for you two,” she says, almost pouting, her voice imbued with her thoughtful intentions. “I want you to be able to just do it with him. Get it out of you system so you can move on with your life. To the next asshole,” she jokes.

  I am touched Lady would go to such lengths to help me have what I want so much. “Hah. Oh, no. I don’t think he wants to yet. And until he wants to, neither do I.” I’m lying, of course—my desire to have sex with you remains prominent in my mind, like a light switch I can’t turn off even though I know I should.

  The bus pulls up and we hop on, seating ourselves across from each other.

  “I so wanted tonight to be the night for you and him!” Lady says, frustrated.

  “It will happen eventually.” I’m oddly resolute in my belief, as though if I believe in it hard enough it will become reality.

  The bus stops at Invalides, where I get off, and we say goodbye.

  Inside my box I stand at my window, admiring the cityscape and enjoying the cool breeze against my neck. I text you to let you know I am home. Just as I’m about to turn away from my window, I hear the sound of a horse’s iron-clad hooves clip-clopping down pavement. I watch, amazed, as a young woman trots down the street below my window on a white horse. Never before have I seen a horse trot down my street. I am flooded with appreciation for the beauty I find in the sight. It is an exquisite reminder that no matter what happens with you, I will always have Paris.

  CHAPTER 15

  She lies in a bed of white satin apple petals, enraptured by the golden silk threads of their stamens

  On my way home the following evening, I muse over my affections for you and the infinite possibilities of what we may do this evening, as I have come to do so often. My vision of our ideal evening entails grabbing a drink in the tenth and then seeing a play at the Bouffes du Nord, and perhaps then grabbing another drink. It would be just like a date, except without the expectation of kisses and shared beds, although I retain an unerring hope we may enjoy these pleasures, too.

  I gaze up at the buildings tinted a rich, butternut gold by the softening sunlight, reminding me you haven’t called me yet to make plans for tonight as you said you would. I see no purpose in waiting around for you to call, so I decide to take the initiative and call you.

  You answer my call with “I was just going to call you,” acknowledging you were the one who was supposed to be doing the calling. “I can’t make it to hang out tonight. I have a horrible stomachache.” All my imaginings of our out-on-the-town evening together are instantly obliterated and replaced by empathy for your illness. I feel as though a pit has spontaneously emerged in my stomach. “I’m walking around trying to find a pharmacy but they’re all closed.”

  “There’s one pharmacy in every arrondissement that is open twenty-four hours,” I tell you. I am so grateful to be able to share my knowledge of Paris with you when you most need it.

  “Oh, I didn’t know that.”

  To allow you to continue your search, I end the conversation with my well-wishes for your feeling better soon.

  Inside my box, I search the internet for 24/7 pharmacies in Paris. I contemplate rushing out to get medicine for you and showing up at your door, cure in hand. I know this would be far too much for me to do, though. Only for your girlfriend or mother would it be appropriate. I decide to write a message to you to offer what I feel is appropriate: soup or tea and a movie in bed—the same as I would do for Lady if she weren’t feeling well. In an effort to be honest and clear about my intentions in general, I add to the message that I don’t want you to remember me as the girl you cheated with in Paris, but as the girl with whom you made wonderful memories.

  Throughout the following day, I anxiously wait for a message from you to appear in my inbox. By late afternoon, there is still no response. I fear my message has somehow offended you or revealed too much about my affections, though underlying my paranoia, I know my fear is irrational. Nothing I said in the message was offensive. It was only too honest, at most, so I shouldn’t worry too much about it.

  To distract myself, I burrow into my literary theory homework of selected readings by Nietzsche and Derrida. As I read the texts, I imagine discussing my understanding of the philosophers’ ideas with you. Because I know you believe education should be open and accessible to everyone, I feel certain you would say Derrida’s work, like that of many of his contemporaries, alienates anyone unable to untie intellectual knots. I, however, think the struggle to understand his work is part of Derrida’s intention—to push readers’ minds to take on complex ideas that are conveyed in complex forms, thereby forcing the reader to consider the ideas in the most focused manner possible. Still, I believe we would agree that Derrida is so abstract it is difficult to relate it in any meaningful way to life experiences.

  Yet, after having this imagined intellectual conversation with you, I feel trapped in a circuitous pattern of addressing my thoughts to you and inventing responses I think you might make. Outside of this pattern, there is an infinite universe of my own creativity and intellect unconfined by my imagined version of you. Addressing my thoughts to you is limiting the potential breadth of my intellect. Doing so induces in me a sense that I am incapable of finding new perspectives from which to consider ideas on my own, which is not true. There are cracks in my strength of self and I am becoming dependent on the thought of you to satisfy myself.

  I know this is a horrid state to be putting myself in, but I have always wanted someone in my life who actually wants to discuss intellectual topics wi
th me and also has a perspective distinctly different from my own. Doing nothing more than talking to you is among my greatest pleasures, so I can hardly prevent myself from fixating with careless abandon on the vast number of potential subjects we may discuss.

  Interrupting my infatuated thought patterns, my phone buzzes. It’s you. I’m so excited I nearly drop my phone. “Hey!”

  “Hey. Padd and I are going down to the Eiffel Tower tonight. Do you want to meet up with us?”

  “I’d love to!”

  We arrange to meet at eight-thirty around the Champ de Mars by the Eiffel Tower. As soon as we say goodbye, I allow myself to savor the warm ecstasy that has flooded my system like a tropical pool flush with life at high tide. Our evening will be luxuriously simple, just lounging on the Champ, chatting, and drinking wine—I have a bottle of red on-hand just for such an occasion. This is also the first time you have taken the initiative to invite me out. I interpret this happy turn of events as an affirmation that I am someone you actively choose to spend your time with. This is, to me, a huge milestone in the deepening of our bond.

  In the depths of my mind, I know I shouldn’t go out tonight. I’m not done with my homework, but it can wait. I also had tentative plans to go to the hammam with Lady if I got enough of my work done.

  I text Lady and tell her I need to finish my paper. Lying to her makes me feel awful, but I must see you. Everything else is inessential.

  On my way to the Champ, a light, warm breeze makes the light silk of my hot pink dress swish softly between my thighs. I am filled with anticipation for seeing you and the laidback evening we will share. The path to the Champ is lined with gates blocking off large expanses of space for the preparations for Bastille Day, which I plan to spend with you. I make my way around the blocked-off areas until the Champ de Mars unfolds before me, wide and green, peppered with lounging people.