Two Americans in Paris (23 page)

Your attraction to a girl who reads reassures me that there is hope you might return my feelings someday. I decide to be honest about my opinion of
Moby Dick
.
“I didn’t really like it. I only had to read part of it for school. It was really dry.”

“Ugh. You only had to read part of it? You should read the whole thing. It’s one of the most famous works of American literature. Melville’s a master.”

“I’ll read it eventually.” If you would admire me as you do her, I could find joy in reading
Moby
Dick
.

I excuse myself to use the porta-potties located at the back of the Champ and slip my feet into my patent red ballet flats, noting the marbled pattern of reflected light on the toe box. My head feels warm and fuzzy, almost buoyant, and the world appears merry-wonderful. The vibrant greens shimmering from the trees and the drunken revelers sprawled on the lawn remind me of the colorful, languorous fun in Matisse’s
The Joy of Life
.

Upon my return, I nestle my earbud in my ear. To my amusement, you play Britney Spears’ “Lucky,” Liz Phair’s “Extraordinary,” and No Doubt’s “Just a Girl.” “You like female singers so much!” I smile and raise my eyebrows.

“Women’s voices are so beautiful,” you say.

Your love of women makes you even sexier to me. So many men I have met, even the most intelligent among them, have misogynistic tendencies.

You recall your recent travels to Spain, retelling your story of the hooker at The Opium Den who grabbed your balls without your permission. It occurs to me that for you to repeat this story may mean the memory of the hooker’s invasiveness is bothering you. As if answering my thought, you say, “I had a dream that I was walking through a museum and there were videos in frames on the wall of people being raped. It was awful.” You look down, the trauma of your nightmare playing across your eyes.

“That is awful,” I say, doing my best to imbue my voice with sympathy. Internally, I’m panicking about whether I may have played a role in inducing your nightmare. We have often visited museums in our art history class, and last week I wrapped you in a tightly woven web of my desire to have sex with you, from which you fled. I calm myself with the conclusion that my panic is probably due at least in part to paranoia. Even if I did make you uncomfortable, your dream of people being raped probably also has to do with the hooker.

You and Padd take your turn to visit the porta-potties. While you are gone, I play with my iPod, childishly delighted to be holding the same object you have held in your hands the past few hours. Underlying my delight, though, is my knowledge that it is silly to ascribe special meaning to an ordinary object because you have come into contact with it.

You return with a gust of air and quickened breath. “We almost couldn’t find our way back.” You settle back in and I return my iPod to your hands. You play Dido’s “Sand in My Shoes,” the song I’ve most recently been listening to on repeat while thinking of you. I have listened to it nearly two-hundred times in the past couple weeks. My body startles as though an electric current has run through me. “I love this song!” I exclaim. “You like this?”

“Yeah. Dido’s great.”

The track’s soft, oceanic sounds flow over my thoughts, permeating the sea of my mind. My consciousness is transported to a beautiful beach where we are the only occupants. We lie on the sand side by side, allowing the waves’ crystal spirals to lap their cool, lacy foam around our calves. We hold hands beneath the damp sand, a secret embrace filled with the tension and longing consuming us both. Your hand shifts in mine as you move to put your weight on top of mine, but the song ends, cutting my daydream just short of its fulfilling moment.

You tilt your head slightly, turning over a new line of thought, and ask me if I know what sarsaparilla is. I search my mind for the word, hoping to link it to the correct association so you think I’m smart. “It’s a kind of herb, isn’t it?”

“It is an herb. But it’s also a drink. It’s kind of like root beer. I’ve been looking for someone who knows what it is.” You look at me as though you had hoped I would be this person, and while you admire my knowledge of sarsaparilla as an herb, you are disappointed I did not know of it as a drink.

“Is it good?” I ask.

“It’s great!” you say.

I add sarsaparilla to the list of things to try at your recommendation, among Havarti cheese and reading
Moby Dick
. I imagine my future filled with experiences you have advised me are worth having. If you were my boyfriend, we would share these things together. But in my imagined future, I am always trying these new things alone, thinking of you as I do. The thought of this is painfully lonely and almost tragically pathetic, so I do not think of it any further.

I look down at the second bottle of wine, which is now empty. The ground appears to vibrate when I move and I feel a faint urge to regurgitate, but I suppress it. There is still another bottle of wine and the bright afternoon light is softening. Determined that we finish all the wine, I open the last bottle and fill both our glasses.

Feeling goofy, you play “But I Like You” by Bert and Ernie. The quirky innocence of the children’s song sounds strange in contrast to the indie and pop music we’ve been listening to. “What? Really?” I ask. You grin, amused by your own impishness, and nod. “I love this song,” I say. “I always imagine that I’m Bert and my sister’s Ernie.”

You head droops upon hearing me say this, making me wonder if you had hoped I would compare us to Bert and Ernie. My first inclination was to compare us to them, but I couldn’t. I like you more than any number of words could convey, but to express even a drop of how much I enjoy your company risks opening the flood gates of my emotions and drowning our friendship in them. I decide to risk it anyway. “You know, I think we’re like them too.” I affectionately rub my hand over your upper back. “I’m definitely Bert, though.”

Your smile back at me is warm, your chestnut eyes kindling the fire inside of me. “That’s because Ernie is cooler.”

“Nu uh! Bert’s the coolest. Don’t let his old-man habits fool you.” I wag my finger at you and laugh. You’re laughing, too, probably both with me and at me. In this moment of shared laughter over the goofiest subject, I feel our bond growing with all things bright and beautiful.

You return my iPod to me. “I’m impressed.”

“You are?” I ask, incredulous. I consider myself to have bad taste in music, as do most other people. I have memorized each song you have chosen and catalogued it in my mind so I may play other music on my iPod you are likely to enjoy. You nod along to chords of the first two tracks I choose, Sufjan Stevens’ “Chicago” and Imogen Heap’s “Can’t Take It In,” pleased with what you hear.

Struck with a fresh wave of drowsiness, you lie back down. I lie next to you and play Brian Malco and Asia Argento’s “Je t’aime, moi non plus.” The song’s explicitly sexual moans and erotic whispers make me blush. You aren’t phased by my song choice, though. You’re drifting off to sleep.

I slip out my earbud and tell you I’m off to use the bathroom.

You open your eyes and look up at me. “Good luck finding your way back.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I’ll find my way back.” To ensure I make my way back with ease, I choose a no-littering sign nearby our spot as a landmark.

When I return I say “I made it back!” before realizing you’re asleep. Your eyelids flutter open and you lift your head. I sit down next to you and, without asking, you put your head in my lap. You’re almost instantly asleep again.

I gently run my fingers through your hair, which I find is surprisingly silky. Your head is so wonderfully perfect. Your cheek and nose are pressed against my upper thigh and I can feel your warm breath against my skin. I am silently thankful girls don’t get obviously visible hard-ons. Everything is throbbing between my legs and I feel like a small pool is forming in my underwear. Each time you shift, the pool gets bigger.

I look down at you, studying your form with the intensity of an artist observing her muse. Lavender veins run in tiny webs over your eyelids and the smattering of sienna freckles over your nose and cheeks shimmer in the sunlight. The bow of your lips is pink, stained with wine, and the speckles of stubble on your chin are a deep, red-brown. My eyes skip across your flat, hard abdomen and land on the part of your body I have been denied access to.

You soon wake up. “Oh, you’re back. Why is my head in your lap?”

“You put it there.”

Your head still in my lap, you look up at me with one raised eyebrow. “I did?”

“Yeah,” I nod. “You raised your head up, put it in my lap, and went right back to sleep.”

“That’s weird.” You sit up.

“I guess it is weird.” I wonder if there is any special meaning to your putting my head in my lap while not completely conscious. Maybe you’ll go home with me tonight after all.

Up by the Eiffel Tower musicians are roaming the stage, preparing to begin the concert. The crowd spread thickly over the Champ de Mars is gradually standing up. We stand too. The world tilts when I move my head and I feel drowsy so I lie down on my towel, my eyes shut beneath the dulled glare of the sun. The floating lights beneath my eyes pulse green, pink, blue, and white. I drift in and out of sleep, imagining you are studying me while I sleep as I studied you. Once I feel my energy is replenished, I open my eyes and am instantly greeted by the sound of your voice.

“Welcome back,” you say.

I smile. You were watching as I hoped you would. I stand up, joining the buzzing consciousness of the crowd. The band picks up their instruments and the lights surrounding the stage illuminate. They play a mix of English and French pop, the upbeat rhythms resounding across the field.

We begin to dance along with the crowd. You aren’t an exceptional dancer, but neither am I. Padd is no good either. We look like we’re just jerking and flopping our body parts around sort-of to the rhythm with the music. It’s doesn’t matter, though. We’re having fun.

While continuing to dance badly, I observe the people around us. At every angle I see couples dancing closely while caressing each other and whispering sweet nothings in each other’s ears. I envision enormous fern fronds sprouting around the perimeter of the Champ and vines of ivy looping over the lawn in response to the fertile grounds of paired couples. I fix my stare on you intermittently, wishing you were single so we could interact like the other couples. Instead, there is unspoken tension, an impassable boundary a foot wide between us.

In an attempt to distract myself from my frustration, I focus on how my drunkenness has heightened my senses. The breeze grazes my neck with cool fingers and the brush of a stranger sends tingles up my arms. I would welcome more than ever the luxury of your embrace, the clasp of your hands around my hips, the dew of your breath left against the throbbing pulse in my neck.

A young, balding man to our left catches my attention. He could be intelligent and isn’t bad-looking, except for his missing hair. I look back at you and am reminded of how you are so much more attractive to me than anyone else on the whole field. You are also balding less than the man to our left.

As the sun sets, the sky-blue butterfly wings of daylight deepening to dusky grays, the band plays their final song and retires from the stage. The volume of the crowd’s chatter increases. Everyone is eager for the fireworks to begin. You are especially antsy. You shout toward the Eiffel Tower, “Where are the fireworks? I want some star spangled banner over here!”

To my dismay, there is a building pressure in my bladder. I will not be able to enjoy the fireworks unless I go to the bathroom, but my time is limited. The fireworks will begin at any moment. “I’m going to go pee,” I tell you.

“You won’t be able to find your way back.”

“No, I will.” Nothing could bar me from returning to you. On my way, I mark not only the no-littering sign near our spot but also the colors of the blankets near ours. One is hunter green, the other a purple plaid. Out on the path I break into a run, wanting to be able to return before the fireworks begin.

I quickly reach the porta-potties and step into one of the long lines extending from each blue capsule. The crowd is becoming increasingly noisy, impatient for the fireworks to start. My hope that they will not begin until I have made my way back to you is so frantic that I close my eyes and pray to God they do not.

Every second each person ahead of me in line spends behind the blue door weighs on me. Finally, I make it in.

When I exit the blue capsule, the fireworks have not yet started. Hoping to not miss a moment, I sprint back. My breath quickens and my lungs heave with the exertion. I skid to a halt when I spot the purple plaid blanket across from the no-littering sign. The number of people on the lawn appears to have doubled in my absence. I bring my hands together and part the wall of bodies, prodding my way through, receiving many dirty looks and perturbed exclamations from those I pass. The fireworks have just begun and I have the audacity to interrupt their experience by stepping on their toes, but I don’t care. In a few moments I will be at your side. I repeat “Pardon, pardon, pardon” until I emerge upon a small open space where my towel is. My eyes fall upon the dome of your beautiful head silhouetted against the fading pinpoints of light from the last batch of fireworks. Yours is the only head I see. All other human forms are indistinguishable black scribble.