Two Americans in Paris (11 page)

The beer has given me a warm, light buzz, dimming my senses. For no particular reason I lift a glass I think is empty only to discover that it was half-full of water that is now spilled all over the floor. “Oops,” I say sheepishly.

Coming to my aid, you snatch your clean-up towel, which is spotted like a homeless Dalmatian, and mop up my mess. I look down at your crouched form beside me and think how I might help, but know I would only end up right on top of you in doing so. I would very much like to be on top of you, but the enactment of my desire would at this moment be totally inappropriate. I thank you and do nothing more.

After putting the towel away, you rest your forearms on the kitchen windowsill, your handsome body forming a beautiful line. “Come here.” The force of your words triggers a magnet in me, impelling me to you.

I rest my forearms on the windowsill alongside yours. The bell of my dress brushes against your lower body and I feel waves of warmth emanating from you, filling me with hot-pink bubbles of affection. I look down at the roof below and looking back up at us is a luxuriously shaggy calico cat sprawled among empty terracotta pots.

“Oh, F. Puss!” I say. “What’s his French name?”

“Bibou.”

“Aw. Beeebouuuu.”

“He tried to get up here the other day, but he fell back pretty hard.” You mimic F. Puss’ fall with your hand. “He hasn’t tried it since. He probably won’t . . . I don’t think he could get up here.”

You move away from the window, leaving me without the source of sensuous warmth I find in having your body near mine. I stay at the window a little longer, wanting you to think I operate independently of you even though I long to follow you the instant you are not at my side. Once the warm bubbles inside me have all but drained away I return to the kitchen table where you are sitting with your grey Dell laptop in your lap. You are determined to find a poem about teenage angst by Philip Larkin so you can share it with me. Upon finding it, your face lights up as if you have recovered treasure.

“Let’s see how my reading voice is.” You clear your throat and begin to read with candor and a hint of pride.

As you read the stanzas I do my best to fully absorb myself in the poetry I am overjoyed to hear you reading to me. I find myself unable to relate to the narrator’s teenage angst, at least not in the my-parents-messed-me-up sense that a surface reading of the poem conveys. I have never felt that way about my parents. “I was never an angsty teen,” I say when you have finished reading.

“Never an angsty teen?” You raise your eyebrows questioningly.

“You were?”

“I was . . . angsty teen . . .” You drift off for a moment on memories from your adolescence. You play the song you listened to most while you were an angsty, in-love teen, “I Will Follow You Into the Dark” by Death Cab for Cutie, and the informal anthem of your high school class, Jay-Z’s “Hard Knock Life.” I store these small pieces of your personal history in my memory, knowing I will listen to these songs later and think of you fondly.

Putting a pause on our song-sharing, Paddington Bear enters the apartment, having left only to recharge the minutes on his phone. I expected him to be unexpectedly handsome, despite his having never been kissed, but he isn’t. He is lanky and tall with olive skin, short, dark hair, and a kind albeit awkward face. We exchange hi’s and how-are-you’s and he heads into the bedroom.

“My prom’s ‘song’ was ‘Beautiful’ by James Blunt,” I tell you. “Which is so awful!”

“Why?”

“Uh, it’s about a guy longing for a girl, but he can never sleep with her because she’s too hot. It’s an entirely bleak outlook for my high school’s graduating class.”

You play the song on YouTube and Blunt’s high voice trills from your laptop’s tinny speakers. You begin to narrate the video for me, since I can’t see your laptop’s screen from where I am sitting. “He’s walking in this barren, cold area, wearing a sweatshirt. It’s snowing. Oh, he’s taking his sweatshirt off. It’s all melodramatic . . .” While I find your narration of the video endearing, it is not necessary. I get up and stand next to you.

“You know Blunt’s a pretty scrawny guy. And short,” you say.

“I find him attractive. I’d do that.” I say so in part because it is true, and in part because I want you to think I find a variety of body types attractive, including yours. I eye my purse, thinking how I could make you jealous with the prospect of other men I could be with instead of you. “There’s a guy in my phone that I could have sex with.”

“In your phone?” you ask.

“Yeah.”

“He fits in there? I can’t imagine that being very pleasurable for you.”

“Ha. No, I suppose not. I convinced myself he had herpes.” I intend to use this line of conversation to determine if you are clean.

“Herpes?”

“Yes, my sister said so as a joke. I mean, people lie, even if you ask.”

“I would lie,” you say.

“Me too! I mean, no one would want to have sex with you if you said ‘Yes, I have a STD.’”

“I’ve been fortunate with that one, though.”

“Me too.”

You look up at me and your gaze makes you aware that I am standing while you sit. “You know, you don’t have to stand there. We can go into my room.” You shut your laptop and I follow you into your room, bringing my beer with me. We settle onto your bed, which is pleasantly cushy.

You slide your fingers among your pile of books and pull out
Gasoline
, the book of poetry you attempted to read on the train the other week. You slip it
into my open palms, turned to “Paris.” I focus my attention on the poem, which holds value for me even before I have read it because you have chosen to share it with me above all the other poems.

My first impression upon finishing the poem is that it captures Corso’s unique perspective of Paris. The line that resonates with me most is the line that refers to Paris as a “New Yorkless city.” Having lived in both New York and Paris, I know how true the description is.

I flip through the rest of the poems. Your slender, linear writing is scattered throughout the pages. You notice me reading your notes. “Oh yeah, I write all over my books,” you say. I am so pleased that you write directly on the pages of the works you read, enriching your reading through your interaction with the text.

Before returning the book to you I read “This is America,” which I like even more than “Paris.” I would probably never have encountered Corso if not for having met you and would almost certainly be less inclined to appreciate his work if it were not for how much I respect your taste. Under your influence, I am slowly beginning to see the unusual beauties in modern art, a period I have never before appreciated. “They’re nice.” I put the book back into your hands. “I should read more of his work.”

“I’ve read it eight times.” You affectionately pat the book.

Ready to move on, we discuss what we would like to do with the rest of the day. “You want to just walk around? Like Saint-Michel, that area?” I propose.

“We could go to Luxembourg,” you suggest, since it’s just around the corner. You say you want Mexican food too, though I warn you it is nearly impossible to find authentic Mexican food in Paris. More often “Mexican” turns out to be Tex-Mex. Not to be waylaid by hearsay, we Google it and find a nearby restaurant with favorable reviews named Anahuacallí.

You say you need to take a shower before we leave, so you scamper off to the bathroom, leaving me with your laptop. I lie across your bed and search the internet for fireworks, thinking of how you are naked just a dozen feet away from me.

My search for fireworks turns out to be fruitless. I prepare myself for telling you that Lady got Bastille Day and the Fourth of July mixed up and memorize the address of Anahuacallí so I can guide our way there this evening.

You saunter back into the room. Fresh and glowing from your shower, you have not elected to walk around topless as I had feebly hoped you would. Instead, you’re wearing a loose-fitting polo shirt, its mud brown color sullying your otherwise bright complexion.

“Did you find anything about fireworks?” you ask.

“Oh, no, nothing. I did find stuff about fireworks, but it’s for Bastille Day. I’m pretty sure Lady got Bastille Day and the Fourth of July mixed up.”

“Yeah, I wondered about that.”

You slide your body next to mine so that the strong round of your shoulder rubs against my upper arm, causing tingles of arousal to spread through my body. You smell of moist, fertile earth in the spring post three days of pouring rain. The odor is so intoxicating to me it’s almost noxious. “Should we invite Padd?” you whisper to me. Padd is in the kitchen, dirtying dishes.

We are
most certainly not
inviting your roommate on our quasi-date. I want you all to myself. “No, we don’t have to,” I whisper back, waving my hand in front of my face as if swatting away any obligation to do so. You breathe a barely perceptible puff of relief.

In the kitchen we gather our things and put on our shoes. As you slide your feet into your flip flops, my attention is drawn to your bruised pinky toe. “Oh, your pinky toe! It looks better, doesn’t it?” I ask, hoping you will tell me the story of how it became so bruised.

“Oh, yeah.” You tilt your foot to the side to look at it. “I slammed it into the wall while playing hockey. I think the toenail falls off eventually and re-grows. It used to really hurt, but it doesn’t anymore.”

I am amused that your bruise comes not from an ordinary accident, like stubbing it on a door frame, but from a battle on the ice hockey rink. Although it is, in some ways, a grotesque choice, your bruise becomes a physical signifier of how much time has passed since we met, as it constantly changes in appearance as it heals.

You yell to Paddington Bear that we’re heading out. “Okay!” he yells back. I follow the jaunty movements of your body and the bobbing round of your head down the dim stairwell.

Out on the street the sun is bright and warm. We muse over our thoughts in silence, returning through the bustling hum of boulevard Saint-Michel.

We soon reach Le Jardin du Luxembourg. Slender iron rods capped with gold fleur-de-lis guard the perimeter. I gesture to the first open gate we pass. “Do you want to go in this entrance?”

“No, we can walk around. I’ll show you where I write. I found this hidden spot where there aren’t any tourists. It’s quiet, perfect for writing.”

We enter the gardens at the next entrance we pass. A mix of tourists and Parisians lounge on two long, rectangular plots of grass between two perfectly straight rows of trees.

“Do you go in there?” I point to a nearby shaded walkway lined with benches.

“No, that’s still too touristy.”

I follow your lead through the sandy garden paths that sparkle with bits of gravel. The trees’ leaves appear to shimmer in the bright afternoon sunlight and the paths are lined with flowerbeds. As we pass into the less frequented area of the garden I sense the peace and quiet that has drawn you here to write. Beneath the shade of tall trees, a handful of people sit on benches with a book or a friend. The area feels almost private, as though these intimate coves of lush greenery are here only for those capable of finding them, like a secret garden.

“I go in there.” You nod to a particular section shaded by willowy tree limbs. The only sounds are the soft shuffle of feet and the song of a bird.

I imagine you with your paper and pen, sitting and writing here. Your mind becomes absorbed in your writing as you select from the infinite possibilities of language. Each word is carefully manipulated by your powerful intellect. I am honored you have shared this part of your life with me, especially because you are so guarded about your novel’s subject.

We leave your outdoor writer’s den and wander toward the Palais du Luxembourg, a Neoclassical-style palace. Tourists and Parisians alike gather around the courtyard radiating from the palace.

On our way by the Palais du Luxembourg we pass children playing with rented toy sailboats in a large, circular stone basin filled with clear blue water. “Look, boats!” you exclaim, lighting up with childlike excitement.

“We could get one, if you want.” I would be delighted to rent a little sailboat with you, exchanging winks and smiles as we play alongside the children. You shake your head. You aren’t ready yet to be the shameless adult playing with kid’s toys.

I catch the scent of horses carried on a light breeze. I look all around us in an attempt to spot a Shetland pony plodding along with a child on its back, but to no avail. “I thought I smelled horses! They do pony rides in here for little kids,” I explain. You nod and make the “mm” sound, mildly amused by my girly love for horses.

As we continue walking, I am struck by how much more beautiful the gardens are to me with you at my side. I feel that you appreciate as I do the many beauties here. I admire anew the way sunlight falls along the graceful stone curves of a female nude, the unhurried lines of the walkways, and the soothing sound of tree leaves tousled softly by the breeze. Our relaxed paces are matched too, which I interpret as an unspoken understanding between us that this time is meant to be relished.

We wander down a broad boulevard lined with a long colonnade of tall chestnuts on each side, their green leaves fluttering against the clear blue sky. At the end of the walkway I think I see the gleaming flanks of a pony, which I happily point out to you. Upon looking closer, we discover the flanks belong to a middle-aged man dressed in deceptively colored khakis. We laugh together, amused by how my desire to see a horse is so intense I have begun to hallucinate.