Two Americans in Paris
Page 23
You collect your laptop and we head into the métro, on our way to the same movie theater where we saw Transformers.
While we watch Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince I trace the glittering movements of your eyes out of the corner of my own. I am so grateful we are seeing this film together, sharing our love for the story of Harry Potter we both grew up reading.
Many scenes in the film involve Ron necking Lavender until one evening Hermione sees them and flips out. She bawls while Harry comforts her. Hermione’s reaction irks me because Hermione never expressed her romantic feelings to Ron, so I think she shouldn’t be so upset that he is with someone else. The truth is, though, that I fear I may one day be in the same situation as Hermione. What if I never have the opportunity to tell you how I feel, or am too cowardly to do it? What if, one day, I am put through the agony of watching you make out with someone else?
On our way out of the theater our bodies are naturally pressed together by the crowd. I take the opportunity to lean in a little closer to you, not unaware I am being a creeper. I stealthily inhale your scent, an intoxicating blend of warm vanilla, sprigs of pine, and a hint of lavender.
We exit the theatre and walk toward the Jardin du Luxembourg.
“So how have you been? In the last twelve hours since we last saw each other.” You look to me with a smile that underlines your awareness of your question’s implications.
“I’ve been good. And you?”
You laugh a little. “Been good too.”
“Did you like the film?” I ask.
“I did. Did you?”
“I did! I’m sort of predisposed to loving them, though. It’s Harry Potter! And Daniel Radcliffe!”
“You have a crush on Daniel?” you ask teasingly.
“I do, I do. Don’t worry though. I like you more.” I playfully knock my knuckles against your shoulder.
You laugh. “Well, obviously.”
On rue Soufflot the little red man of the crosswalk light stops us from crossing, allowing me a few more moments by your side. Although we haven’t discussed plans for the rest of the afternoon, you’ve stopped talking, which you always do before we part. Too soon, the little green man sends us to the other side of the street.
“I’m going to go back to my apartment. Do some writing,” you say.
“I’m going to stay here, maybe do some writing, too.” I feel deliciously deceptive, like I am presenting to you my greatest secret while still keeping you unaware of it: when I write, I am going to be writing about my feelings for you.
We arrange to meet back here, by McDo, later tonight.
I order a shot of espresso and sit by the window. It’s started to rain, darkening the street to a deep charcoal gray. On the back of my receipt, I write:
I choose you. Come nearer, come into my lap. Sing slowly into the whiplashes of my body. Wrap me lightly with arms like ribbons, our fingers intertwined. Brush your heavy breath against my ear. Climb into my inner tendrils. Drench my walls in marigold and tulip winks.
You’re so much better than anything I’ve ever known and I want you more than I could convey to you.
You smell of snow-dusted pine needles, vanilla baby wash, and you are so warm. Your back is a seductive curve, a line of beauty. Only Ingres’ Odalisque could beat you.
I wonder if I love artworks more because they remind me of you or if I love you more because you remind me of artworks. But no, I only love art more because we may share our appreciation of it. You are better than art, for you are human: a person with whom I may learn, love, and live.
I sense someone looking at me. You are standing outside, waiting for me. I exit into the brisk drizzle. To get out of the rain, we decide to pop over to the café next door for a drink.
We greet the charming middle-aged man standing by the bar. He greets us in return and says we may sit where we wish.
We slide into opposite sides of a glossy cherry table. The bartender brings us menus and we mull over the dozens of beers. “I’m going to get the Grimbergen, because it’s fun to say,” I tell you.
When the waiter comes to take our order, we both order the Grimbergen.
A pair of beers the color of dark, translucent honey are set before us. We say “Cheers,” clinking our glasses together, and each take a sip. The beer has a slightly sweet, hoppy flavor, a hint of purple grape. “This is good,” I say.
You nod. “I was here the other night and this British guy told me about how he moved to Paris and just sings in the métro and that pays his rent. He just lives. Do you think you could do that, pay your rent that way?”
“I guess you could.” I believe, though, that such a life would be a waste of your intelligence and passion for teaching. “But you would probably be living in a chambre de bonne like mine.”
You wrinkle your nose.
Thinking back to the movie, I decide to bring up Hermione’s heartbreak. I’m curious about your reaction to it. “Do you remember Hermione just bawling when she sees Ron making out with Lavender? It just doesn’t make sense! It’s unjustified. She had no claim on Ron and she never said anything to him about liking him!” Even as I speak, I do not wholly believe what I say. My fear that I may put myself in the same situation with you as Hermione is with Ron stabs like shards of glass in my gut, as though this situation arising between us is somehow inevitable.
“But love isn’t rational. Sometimes you do that.”
Your calm response, perhaps influenced by your own experiences, surprises me, but I am not convinced. I am naive. I have never experienced the sort of heartbreak Hermione displays in Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. I do not ever want to ever experience it. “It still doesn’t make sense to me. If you want something, go get it.”
You pause, your eyes on me, while considering a new thought. “I don’t think you like being American. I think you’d rather be European.”
I am astonished by your audacious though accurate presumption. My desire to be European has often crossed my mind, so I have an answer prepared. “I don’t especially like being American but it’s what is on my passport. I know that. I don’t think I could pull off being European anyway.”
Your observation that I sometimes wish I were European is uncannily prescient. To my knowledge, no one has ever observed this about me. I feel like you have peered into my euro-wannabe soul. I consider anew how, in the short time I have known you, my attraction to you has increased manifold. I decide to return the compliment you paid to me a month earlier. “I think you have a nice body.”
Your head tilts and you grin, your eyes glittering. “Thank you.”
“You do have a nice body,” I repeat, hoping to soften my following criticism. “You’re hiding it under baggy clothes.”
“I choose that look on purpose. It’s comfortable.”
“I know. But it isn’t doing you justice.”
“So what do you really think about the way I dress?”
Unable to hide my frustration with how disparate your appearance is from your intelligence, I am blunt. “It’s just so uniform! You look like every other American male.”
Keen as always, you have not forgotten that I recently complimented you on the outfit you chose when we went to Opéra. “So when you said the other night that I looked nice . . .”
“Well, um.” I frantically search for a way to reconcile the truth with my desire to keep you close to me, but find myself speechless.
“It’s okay, just say it,” you say. I hesitate to continue but you reassure me, “Just say it. I can take it.”
Given free rein to critique your outfit, I leave no detail unsaid. “Okay. Well, the fit was not good. You looked like a little old man. The slacks were way too big. The sweater—brown isn’t a good color on anyone and it was wool. You had to have been so hot! And the shoes were square-toed like for a duck. I mean, if you think about it, no one has square-shaped feet, so shoes should not be shaped that way.”
“So how should shoes be shaped?”
“But the socks? They were okay?” you ask.
“Yes, the socks were okay,” I say. “They were black?”
“Yes. So, what would you rather see me in instead?”
“I don’t know. Really, you should choose what you want to wear. Don’t just wear what everyone else is wearing. If you’re really interested in changing the way you dress, do some research, read The Sartorialist, read men’s fashion magazines, even women’s, figure out what you like that’s comfortable too. If you dress better, you’ll feel better about yourself and people will respond to you more favorably.”
“I like the way Professor dresses. He dresses like he doesn’t give a shit.”
“I like the way he dresses too. But it’s very studied. It’s meant to look like he doesn’t care but the details are important. The fitted but not tight jeans, the slouchy canvas bag, the cotton t-shirts, the red-rimmed glasses. He didn’t have those glasses last semester. They were black-rimmed instead. He makes very careful style choices.”
“Oh.” You bow your gaze to the table.
We are silent for a moment. I take a sip from my half-full glass and admire the two black butterflies mounted in a frame on the wall. One has pumpkin orange stripes, the other squash yellow ones.
You break the silence. “Would you date me?” Your eyes are glimmering, affixed on me.
A silent throb like the beating of a wing passes through my heart. Your question is entirely out of the blue, a question I never thought I would hear you ask me here in Paris. All the butterflies that have made my abdomen their home are fluttering excitedly. I don’t let any of my inner turmoil show in my body language. I have no wish to divulge how much you asking this question means to me. All I say in response is, “Well, I have thought about it.”
“Oh.” You nod, but say nothing more, waiting for me to elaborate.
“And I would. But you’re too young.” I keep my words purposefully reserved. Although there is within me a puppy-like desire to date you, I know you would not be a good boyfriend—I know it too well. You are often inconsiderate, leading me on when it suits you only to later reject me, and you say whatever you think, even if it is insensitive. I would never be happy with your bad behavior and my unhappiness would make you unhappy as well. I would only date you if you mature into a caring, loving man, and want to be with me.
“But you’re also my age . . .”
“I know, I mean, I’m too young, too.” I am insecure and arrogant as well as inexperienced, especially in romance.
It occurs to me that your asking me if I would date you could just be out of curiosity. “So, would you date me?”
“Yes, if not for your being in Boston, me in Philly, my girlfriend . . .” A wistful expression passes briefly across your face but is replaced by a resolve before you continue speaking. “I like having sex with women, but I don’t like being with women. Like, in relationships. Which begs the question of why I am in one.” Your cheeks break into a seductive half-smile, taunting me. “But I don’t have an answer that would satisfy you.” Your look up at me, your eyes sparkling with lust I long to have poured down my throat. “It used to be good. But it isn’t the same anymore and she refuses to acknowledge that. I can’t hold her hand and it make my week. I miss infatuation, crazy love . . .”
“You’ll find that again.” I hope you will find it with me.
You sigh. “All this stuff with my girlfriend . . . it’s one thing when one person loves the other person more than the other, but when it’s obvious and you both admit it, it’s not fair. She really loves me. She treats me like a king. I’m an asshole to her.”
This is the first I have heard from you that your relationship is not going well, as I have suspected. It is also the first time you have told me anything substantive about your girlfriend. Rather than hate her, I identify with her. I also treat you like a king by doing all I can to provide you every pleasure and you are not infrequently an asshole to me. Unlike your girlfriend, I am not dim enough to think I would be happy in a relationship with you, however jealous I may be that she gets to have sex with you. I am happy, at least, that your girlfriend loves and cares for you. However, your relationship is doomed unless she starts respecting herself more and you start returning some of the care and love she has given you. “That’s not fair to either of you.”
“It’s not fair to her.”
“You could be friends with her afterward.”
“I would, but I don’t think she’d want to. I mean, you know someone pretty well after four years.”
I’m surprised your relationship has lasted so long in spite of your womanizer tendencies. “You’ve been together that long?” I raise my eyebrows.
You nod, “Yeah.”
I don’t want to talk about your girlfriend anymore so I redirect the conversation. Again emboldened by your having told me you would date me, I ask, “You want to know when I decided I wanted to sleep with you?” You nod. “Versailles.”
“Which . . .” You move your hand back and forth, as if between our two visits.
“The first time. Between walking from the train to Versailles. You just said you read and that was it.”
“Well, I’ll have to remember that.” You grin, enjoying teasing me.
“No, mm.” I wave my hand as if to erase your last sentence. “It’s not about that, it just is. It’s more than just the book stuff now. We always have a great time when we go out.”
“Well, I’ll have to remember that,” you repeat, teasing me more.
I blush and stifle a grin, not wanting you to think your teasing overexcites me.
Our beer glasses are lined with foam so we pay and emerge from the bar into the cool evening dark. At the entrance to the RER you embrace me, wrapping me in your warmth. You are so soft, so perfect in my arms. Our embrace lasts a little longer than usual but, as always, you pull away. You ask me to call you when I get home and saunter off.
I board the next RER train and exit at Saint-Michel Notre Dame. Rather than take the bus the rest of the way home, I decide to walk.
As I move from street to street, chilly mist brushes my cheeks. My chest feels hollow without yours pressed to mine. To fill the void, I imagine you are at my side, weaving with me through the buttermilk light of the night. I think over our evening conversation. It could be so lovely to date you, one day—perhaps even to build a life with you: a home, children, everything. In my mind, our life together is full of adventure, a sort of fairytale we create as we go. Most of all, although I hate to think it because of the emotional repercussions, there is love between us. Even though I would have denied it if you had asked me in Paris, I do love you. I love you more than words can bear.
CHAPTER 20
She thinks going out to chop wood would be the most manly thing to do right now
The following evening, you call me to ask for my help obtaining your train ticket tomorrow. I agree instantly. Ever since you told me that you had chosen Padd to help you with getting your train ticket to Vienna, I have longed to be chosen instead. We agree to meet at Gare de l’Est tomorrow at ten.
The next morning as I glide up the escalator in Gare de l’Est, I look up at the frosted glass cabochons set in the stone ceiling that glow with soft amber light. Long, purring trains are lined up along the tracks like silver dragons, each promising to bear its passengers to a distant land. I comb the station for you, searching for a glimpse of your world-round head or trig, handsome body, but cannot find you.
I call you and we describe our locations to each other but neither of us is able to determine where the other is. We finally agree to meet by train track nine. At long last, I spot you. Your shoulders are sloped down and you’re frowning, as if you have already resigned to the frustrating experience of getting your ticket. We greet each other with a strained “Hey.” I follow you to the end of the a
lmost unmoving ticket line. Because you want to use your Euro rail pass, which requires special advice, we have to wait in line with other people who have a complex issue that takes time to resolve.
While we wait, I admire the station’s neoclassical architecture. The fluted columns are elegant and the caryatids graceful. Although the structure is all stone, the atmosphere is alight with a sense of freedom to go anywhere at a moment’s notice. On a whim, I could run off with you to the Swiss countryside. We would ride majestic black stallions up hills of grass as thick as a blanket, looking out on landscapes of charming cottages and hills fading to misty blue in the distance. “I like being in train stations,” I say. “I feel like I could go anywhere at any moment. If you could go anywhere from here, where would you go?”
You grin mischievously. “Vienna.”
“Hah. I guess that’s why we’re here?”
You nod.
The line moves as slow as molasses. I become antsier by the minute as you appear increasingly bored. I feel responsible for entertaining you. If we are meant to be romantic partners, an hour together should not be so dull. I point out the signs on the wall advertising trains bound for numerous French cities. Your interest is momentarily piqued, but not enough to engage you in conversation.
You look me up and down and point out I’m wearing jeans and black flats. Both are aberrations from my typically skirted outfits with red flats.
“Just for you! I wanted you to see what I look like when I’m not wholesome and prim-looking,” I joke. My outfit is different because we have plans to go row-boating in the Bois de Boulogne later. I don’t want to get my nice clothes dirty.
“You aren’t wholesome or prim.” You guffaw, looking up at me through your reed-brown eyelashes.
I almost contradict you, but find I cannot. I purse my lips and search my mind for something else to talk about. “Oh! I have something for you.” I take the latest issue of CORE, AUP’s Humanities journal, out of my purse and give it to you.