Two Americans in Paris (19 page)

With a few more bites I finish the sandwich and throw the wrapper away. You stray up ahead, leaving your Frame-twin and I to walk alongside each other. Your Frame-twin asks me banal questions, like “So, how old are you?” It occurs to me that you may have left your Frame-twin with me on purpose, hoping we might get on well enough for me to give up my pursuit of you. If it was your plan, it has backfired. Talking to your Frame-twin only reminds me of why I like you. During our first conversation, we discussed the nature of love in
Lolita
, the value of reading literature, and you shared with me your passion for urban education. There was no need for the mundane get-to-know you questions your Frame-twin and I have asked each other. You and I had an instant connection. Talking to you
excites
me. Talking to your Frame-twin is comparatively dull.

Catching our attention, a sleek boxer lopes by in stride with his owner. “Boxers are great dogs,” your Frame-twin says.

“My girlfriend’s brother has a boxer,” you say, locking your eyes on me as you say “girlfriend.”

My dear, I find you reminding me of your girlfriend almost laughable. How could I forget about her? She is the sole bar to my being able to have you intimately, which is the constant preoccupation of my thoughts.

By now we’ve wandered to the beginning of the rue de Rivoli. Since we all have places to be soon, we descend from the street into métro Saint-Paul. You and your Frame-twin are headed in the direction opposite from me, so we say goodbye.

Later that evening, I skype my mother to ask her about my about my experience of sensing your presence earlier today. My mother already knows all about you, how much I like you, and my efforts to seduce you (which, in a very motherly way, she very much disapproves of). She explains that from what she knows, sensing someone’s presence simply means you are very in-tune with that person. I like the idea that we’re “in-tune” with each other. It fits the bond I feel to you, especially when we are discussing intellectual topics. My mom also chides me for missing our last several Skype dates, which I had completely forgotten about it. I’ve been so busy seeing you, I explain to her. Understandably, she feels that I like you so much it is endangering my emotional health. She advises me to focus on just enjoying the rest of the summer with you, just as friends, and to not worry about my feelings for you. “Doing things the right way yields powerful results,” she says. I like the idea of “powerful” results. Even if we only stay friends, at least that outcome may have a powerful, positive force. My mother’s advice is sage, as usual.

Before falling asleep, I think of my conversation with my mother. As I did last night, I focus my energy on you with such intensity that I feel my energy flowing from my core outwards. I pray for the strength to contain my overwhelming desire so we can have a wonderful summer together. It is the most that is possible, at least for right now.

I dream we’re lounging on a white bed in a white-walled room similar to that of my high school. Lush potted plants fill the room, their broad leaves draped over the windowsills. Glossy, hunter green ivy sprawls along the walls. The energy between us is hot and your mouth is over mine, our wet tongues learning new mouths. Waves of heat are flowing through my body and my bloodstream is flooded with the opiates of sexual longing. Your stubble is rough against my chin and you are so warm, so perfect with your nose pressed into my cheek, your breath left as dew on my flushed lips.

I lean back from your embrace. You’re lying beneath me, propped up on one elbow. You hand me a placard of what look like glossy white band-aids. You’re offering them as an alternative to condoms. I look down at the thin, white strips and cannot conceive of how these would function like condoms. My body is so hotly intoxicated with the chemicals of arousal that my ability to speak is arrested, so although I want to say “Can’t we just use a condom?” I cannot make my mouth form the words.

While I am struggling to speak, the dream fades away.

She repeats in her mind the name of her lover like a native tongue she is trying desperately to preserve

As I do every morning, I look out over what I affectionately refer to as the painter’s Paris spreading from my window. The charcoal gray roofs contrast beautifully with the pale-hued stone buildings that wind in an elegant labyrinthine pattern across the city. Sunlight glints in white streaks across the windows, causing them to glimmer with the same sort of subtle sophistication as the women and men who stride by on the street. I am so grateful for having this view and am deeply appreciative for the good fortune I have in being able to live here.

When I first moved here, Paris was everything I expected. The city was as exquisitely beautiful, obsessed with its own brand of culture, and unapologetically snobby as I had dared hope it would be. You have brought a dimension to my enjoyment of Paris that I never expected Paris to have. You have enriched my love for Paris, which I thought was impossible, considering I have been a Francophile nearly all my life. My time is measured by when I will be next seeing you. I live for the time we spend together. Everything in-between is less exciting, less pleasurable, less challenging.

Lady and I get to Tour Montparnasse first, where we are meeting to go swimming. While waiting for you, I feel my phone buzz in my purse. I fear it might be you, calling with the bad news that you can’t make it. I pull my phone from my purse and look at the screen, my emotions weighted with dread though simultaneously a little bit of excitement at seeing your name. I answer your call with what I hope is a breezy, casual, “Hey.” You say you aren’t feeling well and can’t make it. Since I suspected you might be calling to cancel on our plans to go swimming, I have a back-up plan in mind. I invite you to have lunch with us later, which you readily agree to. We say goodbye.

As I return my phone to my purse, I feel the breezy act I put-on for talking to you fall away. In its place is disappointment and a sinking feeling that you have lied to me. Even if you are not feeling well, the truth is you aren’t interested in going swimming with us. I tell Lady you aren’t coming, but will meet us for lunch later. “I think he’s hesitating,” I tell her, and she agrees. “It’s not fair,” I tell her. “I just want to spend time with him, regardless of what we’re doing.” Lady nods sympathetically. I feel like a dark anvil weighted with the frustration of a situation I cannot change is lodged in my chest. Since I cannot change the situation, I shake off my despondency. I hardly need you to enjoy myself and Lady is such lovely company. “Well, we’ll just have fun without him!” I say to Lady. “Yes! We totally will” she says, her blue eyes sharp and bright.

In the pool, Lady and I do front crawl and backstroke up and down the length of one of the outside lanes. I have always loved swimming. I find a sense of freedom and power in being able to move my body quickly through the water. While resting for a moment at one end of the lane, I look at the many other swimmers, and wish you were here, too. Your hair would be darkened to seal brown from being wet, beads of water running down your warm cheeks. We would playfully splash each other, laughing before we race after one another down the lane.

Lady soon tires of doing laps, so she gets out and I follow after her. We return to the showers to rinse off and change back into our clothes.

Back on the street we decide to eat at Pizza Pino, an Italian restaurant across the street from Tour Montparnasse. I quickly call you and tell you where we’ll be having lunch. You say you’ll be here in fifteen minutes.

Lady and I are seated at a table covered with a crisp, white tablecloth. Although I have been told by friends that the food here is slightly overpriced and mediocre, I have always wanted to try it, probably because I often pass by it on the bus and it’s always busy. It smells good in here, at least— rising pizza dough, warm tomato-based sauces garnished with basil, and a hint of cheese and olive oil. We study the menu and both decide on pizza. Seeing that we have set down our menus, the waiter comes to us to see if we are ready. We politely tell him we are waiting for a third person.

Soon twenty minutes have passed and you haven’t arrived yet. Lady and I are becoming more irritated as each additional minute passes. For you to be late to meet me is one thing, but to be late when I am with Lady compounds the rudeness. “I can’t believe he’s this late!” I exclaim, frustrated and embarrassed. As if answering my exclamation, my phone buzzes. It’s you, but you hang up before I can answer.

At seeing that you have hung up before I could answer your call, Lady looks baffled. “Don’t call back,” she instructs me. “They do that so you’ll call them back so they don’t have to pay for the call.”

I have little doubt that Lady is wrong, but I call you back anyway. All I want is for you to show up, even if you come prancing in here like an over-proud show horse. You answer my call with an unhurried “Hey” and ask me where the restaurant is. I describe the location to you with as much detail as possible. You say you’ll be here in ten minutes. Although I initially respond with a displeased “Ten minutes!?”, I am almost instantly calmed at the thought of seeing you imminently and say, “Alright. See you soon!”

I tell Lady you’ll be here in ten minutes. She says “Ten minutes?!” just as I did. I nod, unable to offer any words to excuse your lateness. I think it’s just as bad as she does. Although perturbed, she agrees to wait.

While waiting, I cannot relax. I constantly peer out the window and eye the door, waiting for you to appear.

Not soon enough, you stride in through the door as though there’s nothing to be in a hurry about. You slide into a chair at our table without an apology for having made us wait thirty minutes rather than fifteen.

“Did you have trouble finding it?” I ask you.

You shake your head, “Not really.”

I look at you, my mouth agape. I am astounded by your evident ambivalence about having made us wait.

But then your eyes rove up and down my front, eyeing my biker jacket, which I have again worn primarily for your enjoyment. You draw your fingers along the beginnings of a mustache on your upper lip and gesture to me. “You know, I like your jacket. It makes me miss my motorcycle.” You smile, your eyes glimmering attractively.

My anger melts away and in its place is an intense happiness. I am overjoyed that you
do
enjoy my biker jacket, as I so hoped you would. I know it shows a complete lack of self-respect to let go of my anger about your rudeness so easily, but I can’t help myself. I am in the grips of lust. I have completely succumbed to its exquisite binary of pleasure and pain. “I bet it does.” I imagine the two of us on your motorcycle together. Its engine purrs. My thighs are pressed against yours, my chin nestled against the bold round of your shoulder, my arms wrapped around your waist.

Once you have looked over the menu, I call the waiter over to our table. We each order a pizza and a beer.

“So how was the swimming?” you ask.

“I like being in the water, but I wanted to just play.” Lady motions her hand in a circle over the table. “There were a lot of kids in that area, though.”

“Yeah.” You look at Lady and raising your arm toward her. “Doing laps isn’t fun.”

I am unhappy you didn’t say earlier you’d rather not go swimming. We could have just planned to have lunch together, as we are doing in any case, and you wouldn’t have needed to lie about not feeling well.

Our pizzas are set in front of us. Upon taking my first bite, I discover the pizza is as mediocre as my friends insisted it was. Still, it’s not bad. The herbs in the sauce are delicious, but the crust is too dry and the cheese too oily.

While we eat I divide my eye contact equally between you and Lady, restraining myself from flashing a naughty glance or flirtatious smile in your direction. I feel as though my rampant, lascivious desires are lurking beneath my biker jacket, begging to be allowed to burst forth from between the thick metal teeth of the industrial zippers or beneath the well-worn lapels. It is a constant struggle to keep them hidden. I maintain light, casual conversation, feeling like an actress playing the part of a young woman at ease among her friends.

“The next
Harry Potter
film comes out on the fifteenth!” I say, hoping we might all go see it together.

“They’re great books,” you say. “The movies are good too. You can be three or ninety-three and still enjoy them. I’m excited to see the movie.”

“Me too! We should all go to the next one when it comes out,” I say.

You nod, pleased with the idea.

“Yes! Haireey Puttah,” Lady says, pursing her lips in an attempt at a British accent.

You and I smile at the sound of Lady’s “British” accent—seeing our amusement, Lady smiles too. “Wow, that was the best British accent I’ve ever heard,” you tease. “And by best, I mean worst.” We all laugh.

Changing the subject from Harry Potter, you tell us about how you were accepted into Princeton. “I went and audited a few classes,” you say casually, as if it were no big deal. “The dean of my college, like the head head of my college, called me and asked if there was anything they could do to make my stay there better. I said there wasn’t.” You shake your head. “I ended up staying where I am, not going to Princeton.” You pause, anticipating our responses.

“You got into Princeton and you didn’t go!?!” Lady says, appropriately astonished.

“It wasn’t an easy decision to make,” you admit.

Unlike Lady, I am not astonished. You have an exceptionally intelligent mind. I am proud of you for having chosen the education best suited to you rather than the one with a prestigious name. “I can see why you stayed where you are. I’m glad you did—in the independent study program. It seems like it’s been a good fit for you.”

You nod lightly. “Yeah. I think it was the right decision.”

There is a momentary pause in our conversation. The beer has given me a warm buzz and I feel a little light-headed. I look first at you and then at Lady and wonder how I could have two friends so completely different in character and yet we all get along. I feel so blessed to have both of you as my friends and fortunate that we are able to happily spend time together. My enjoyment of our combined company reminds me that Lady and I have plans to get tea at the Paris Mosque’s café. I would love it if you came too, so I invite you to come with us. “That sounds great,” you say.

I look down at the quarter of my pizza left unfinished on my plate. Normally I devour entire pizzas as though feeding a ravenous beast inside me, but my appetite has not yet fully returned. Or maybe just being around you makes me less hungry—for food, anyway. Either way, I have not forgotten that you “like a girl who can eat,” so I would like to finish as much of the pizza as possible. Underlying my determination to eat as much of my pizza as possible is an awareness that I should not be making myself uncomfortable for your sake. Fueled by my rampant, blinding desire for you to find me attractive, I steadily eat more of the pizza until I cannot put another piece in my mouth.

We pay the bill and head out toward the métro. “We’ll get off the métro at Place Monge,” I tell you both. “The mosque should be about a ten to fifteen minute walk from there.”

“Ten to fifteen minutes?” Lady exclaims.

“Well, more like ten. Don’t worry, it will be fine,” I assure her. She pouts but acquiesces.

On the métro, Lady discreetly says to me, “I thought tea was going to be just the two of us.”

“Oh . . . so sorry! Do you mind he’s coming? Besides being late, he shouldn’t be too bad.”

“It’s ok. He just is irritating. All the boasting. Bad manners. He’s losing his hair.” She counts your flaws off on her fingers. “You can do so much better.”

“Yeah, maybe. I like him though. I’ve always had a thing for brilliance. I can’t help myself. I’ll definitely ask you next time about inviting him.”

“Perfect.” She smiles.

I look over at you to see if you seem suspicious of our whispering, but you are looking in the opposite direction, lost in your own thoughts.

We emerge from the métro at Place Monge. Gardens line the area, their iron gates draped with lush, deep green ivy vines. The mosque’s minaret, beautifully decorated with pale green and blue abstract patterns, looms up over the stucco-white buildings.

Since it’s Friday, the mosque’s doors are shut to the general public, but the mosque’s café is open. Its outside walls are decorated with tiles painted with sea green, azure blue, and soft orange floral forms. Horseshoe arches, characteristic of Islamic architecture, curve over the patio. We sit at an outdoor table hooded by a spray of sage green leaves. A waiter with a tray of mint tea comes to our table. We order one each.

You take a sip of the tea and instantly brighten. You sit up a little straighter and smile, a barely perceptible flush pinking your cheeks. “This is the best tea I’ve ever had!”

You look happier than I have seen you since we last went to Versailles. I enjoy the sight of your happiness far more than the tea. “The tea is good. But very sweet.”

Lady notices near the entrance two women who are wet, probably from the nearby hammam, which Lady has been wanting to visit. Lady excuses herself and gets up to ask the two women about the hammam.

“She’s interesting,” you say, eyeing Lady.