Two Americans in Paris (24 page)

With La Tour Eiffel as the centerpiece, the skyline pulsates with colored light. The pure joy and beauty of the spectacle fills me with an uplifting patriotism and pride for France.

Your camera emerges between your fingers and you snap away indiscriminately. Recalling that you think taking pictures is “touristy,” I ask, “You’re taking pictures?”

“I’m too drunk to remember this,” you tell me while continuing to snap pictures.

I am not as drunk as you, and my memory is better than yours, especially when you are with me. Each moment of our time together imprints like a brand on my mind. I will remember every bright burst of violet purple, lollipop red, chrome yellow, sapphire blue, and sulfur green glittering in the midnight-dark depths of your pupils.

While the fireworks continue to pop and sparkle, colored images illustrating decades of French history are projected onto La Tour Eiffel. For World War I and World War II, little armies march across the Tower’s middle band. Neon flowers with fat petals twist and spin to represent the sixties. Enormous plumes of smoke leftover from the explosions waft to the east with the breeze that cannot brush past our bodies, packed as we are between hundreds of others.

The sky blooms with the finale fireworks, a rainbow of electric lights casting a pale iridescence on your face as though you were submerged in a coral reef flush with brilliantly colored sea life. A final projection on The Eiffel Tower makes it appear to dance, marking the end of the celebration.

The crowd begins to disperse. We roll up our towels and gather our things. As I predicted, the wine glasses you insisted on bringing are irreparably cracked. Rather than picking them up to bring them to a trash can, you begin to stomp on them. I try to stop you, seeing that many people around us are barefoot, but you continue to smash the glasses until they are reduced to shards. Seeing you behave with such disregard for others horrifies me. How could I find you attractive when your carelessness will likely injure people? But my judgment is hazed by my lust. I decide that if people are walking around barefoot on this lawn littered with trash, it is their choice to risk injury. My conclusion is not logical, of course—I’m devising excuses for you. After all, I’m drunk too and stupid to find you attractive.

As we walk down the sandy path along the Champ we bump into some of our classmates from Professor’s class. You chat with our male classmates and I talk to one of the girls. I’ll call her Lily since her dress has large, white lilies printed on its navy background.

My drunkenness has dispelled my inhibitions, so I tell Lily what is on my mind without reservation. “I want to go home with him,” I say, nodding to you. “He has a girlfriend though.”

“Who cares?” she asks.

“He does,” I say.

She shakes her head. “Don’t worry about that. I’ll be your wing-girl.”

“My what?”

“Wing-girl. It’s when a girl helps her friend get a guy,” she explains.

“But you won’t mention me when you talk to him?” Based on the literature I have read, if Lily were to mention me to you, you might end up liking her instead.

“No, no, not at all. It doesn’t work that way,” she assures me.

I wasn’t able to seduce you, so maybe her tactics will work. Even if not, it might be entertaining, at least. “Okay. Go for it.”

Lily walks up to you, trying to get your attention. One of the boys from our class is talking to you, barring Lily from you. She comes back and tells me that our classmate is cock-blocking.

I watch you punch your arms in the air in response to nothing apparent. You’re making a fool of yourself. I’ve never seen you so sloshed.

Although I am not at all attracted to your erratic, asinine behavior right now, your drunkenness may make it possible to take you home with me. This is the opportunity I had hoped for this morning. I wonder why I’m not as drunk as you, considering we drank nearly equal amounts of wine—nearly a bottle and a half each. Padd had only a single glass. Perhaps I am sobered by my desire to make sure you get home safely, preferably my home, which ironically might not be so safe.

You grab an unopened bottle of rosé from one of our classmates, twist off the cap, and drink liberally from the bottle. Lily plucks the bottle from your fist despite your protests. “Nope!” she tells you. You twist your head in indignation but quickly move on to the next amusement. You’re ogling Lily’s friend, nestling your gaze between her jiggling cleavage. Lily’s friend has a kind, almost motherly demeanor and is a complete stranger to you. Without even needing to say so, she wouldn’t go home with you, making her a safe haven for your sexual desires. You loop your arm around her neck and I long for you to do the same to me. You aren’t even looking at me. I’m furiously jealous and hurt that you do not find me worthy of your attention, but I am not surprised. You are an asshole and this behavior is to be expected from you.

I decide to ignore you and engage Lily in conversation. I feel a little guilty about wanting to take you home with me, so I offer an admittedly weak justification for my desire. “It’s been like an embarrassingly long time for me. Like seven months.” 

“Eight months for me,” Lily says. “My boyfriend is in the navy. I could cheat on him but I just couldn’t. I really love him.”

“That’s so good of you!”

She nods with an almost wistful expression on her face, perhaps recalling the experiences she has sacrificed to preserve her faithfulness. She lifts her head and addresses my situation, which does not require my being faithful to anyone. “At least get make-out from him,” she says, her gaze discreetly directed toward you.

“I could do that.” I would love to make out with you, if you’ll let me.

You appear at my side and gawp at Lily’s dress. “It looks like a kimono, Japanese!”

“No,” she shakes her head. “It’s not Japanese! It’s from Bebe.”

“No, it doesn’t look Japanese,” I assure her. “It looks very Gucci. It’s very pretty.”

“Thank you!”

Lily plays the wing-girl and drifts off to leave us together. We aren’t alone for more than a minute, though. Padd joins us and we wander to the street. I whisper in Padd’s ear that I’m going to try to take you home with me. He says nothing, but I assume he considers my plan immoral. What Padd doesn’t know is I want you to come home with me simply to keep you with me, clothed or unclothed. I want to have you, my dearest of all, stretched out asleep on my bed. Even so, my desire to have you
chez moi
is not entirely innocent. I also want you to try to sleep with me so I have proof of your attraction to me instead of it being just something you say. I want to have to stop you from putting your hand down my pants so I know you have a genuine desire to do so. And yes, I want to make out with you, if only to see whether our physical chemistry is as good as it is in my imagination. Though, it might be nearly impossible for me to stop myself from doing more than make out with you.

Regardless of what my intentions are, you should be intoxicated enough to want to come home with me. I also figure you’ll have, at best, a hazy memory of whatever I say to you, so I say exactly what I want without reservation. My drunkenness has given me balls and compunction.

“I’m hungry. I want a cheeseburger!” you exclaim.

“So do I,” I say. “But I don’t think any McDos are open now. You could come back to my place. I have food there.”

“You have dubious ways.” You turn your head toward me, a suspicious look in your eyes.

I am touched that you have noticed how manipulative I can be. “I don’t want to sleep with you anymore.” Mimicking the way you hooked your arm around the neck of Lily’s friend, I hook my arm around your neck and rub my hand across your chest as if to both affirm my statement and render it invalid. You fit perfectly in my embrace, our bodies aligned in stride like matched puzzle pieces in motion.

“Well, that hurts my . . . self-esteem . . .” As you speak, I can feel your breath leaving you, as though something you had felt assured of has slipped away from you.

“Well, not until you’re single,” I reassure you.

Your ego re-inflated, your breath returns to your chest. “But then you’ll be in Boston,” you point out, inadvertently revealing that you expect your relationship will end once you are back in the States.

“Boston isn’t that far away,” I say.

“I guess not,” you say. “Like six hours.”

“It will be worth it.”

“I don’t know about that.”

I wonder if you think the wait won’t be worth it because you fail to see the strength of our bond or because it may be an exceptionally long time. You wriggle out from under my arm’s hook around your neck.

“Come home with me. It’s just a five minute walk from here. Just right up there.” I point toward Invalides. I know I sound desperate, but my box is too nearby to not make every effort to get you to come home with me.

You try to deny my request with charm. “Padd tucks me in at night. You don’t.”

“I would tuck you in.”

Your charm ineffective, you deny my request with criticism instead. “Your place is as big as my foot!” Your words are needlessly hurtful and I respond with stunned silence, so you acquiesce and answer my question honestly. “If we go back to your place, I’ll want to do something.”

“No, I won’t let you. I can control myself.”

“I don’t think you could.” You give me a look wrought with doubt. You have not forgotten how pliable my body was by the time you left my box last week.

“I could, I could,” I insist. I search my mind for something that would add to the allure of coming home with me. I recall that you had told me you had trouble getting a train ticket to Vienna, your destination when your time in Paris is finished. You had brought Padd with you to the travel agency to help you communicate in French, but the computer system wasn’t working, so you have to go again. When you do go again, I would like to be the one chosen to help you. “I’ll help you with your train ticket in the morning.”

“My girlfriend . . . my girlfriend would not approve.” You sigh. “I would want to do something.”

I give up on trying to persuade you to come home with me. “I don’t know if I should be offended or flattered.”

“Probably flattered.” You meet my gaze and nod.

We’re all ready to go home now, but you don’t know where the nearest métro is. I offer to show you the way and at first you refuse to let me. You don’t trust me, and I cannot blame you for this. I’ve been pushy about wanting to take you home with me. Your trust is vital to me, though, especially if I want our friendship to continue once we have returned to the States. My first task toward regaining your trust is being the person who shows you the way home. Given that no one else is offering to help you, I am able to persuade you to allow me to walk with you to the métro, which is on my way home. At Avenue de Tourville, where our paths diverge, I point you to the métro across the street. You slide into place by Padd’s side. He will take care of you in my absence. You are probably safer with him than with me, in any case. We wave goodbye.

I turn away and walk alongside the moat guarding Invalides, on my way home. The sidewalk is packed with people spreading from Champ de Mars and the air is full of jubilee and camaraderie. Although I am not French, I share a common gratitude for the magnificence of the celebration and the independence of France. I mingle with the connected groups of people, imagining I belong among them.

Inside my box, I tug my window ajar, the fresh air dissipating the thick heat in my box. I trace the line of buildings leading to the two towers of Notre Dame directly north of your home, where you will soon be. I had wanted you lying on my bed, but if I am patient and careful, there may be other opportunities to bring you home with me. My selfishness aside, I am glad you are safe with Padd.

She is living in a twisted fairy tale

Within the past few hours, my room has become a chaotic mess of yellow and red silk organza pieces, school papers, and volumes of Proust and Deleuze I’ve been pouring over in order to write my final paper for my Literary Theory class. My paper isn’t finished yet. I also decided to make my own dress for our quasi-date at Opéra tonight—my dress isn’t finished either. Attending Professor’s class this afternoon is not feasible. I’ll miss Professor’s wisdom and the opportunity to see you, but doing well in my Literary Theory course takes precedence.

At my meeting with my Literary Theory professor, I arrange to turn in my final paper later this week and hurry home to get ready for our date at Opéra. I’ve been an unusually bad student lately—skipping Professor’s class today, and I’m not even done with my final paper. I should be doing my work tonight, not going out to see you. I rationalize that it’s ok for me to have a little fun. I only missed one
of Professor’s classes, and my Literary Theory professor is ok with my turning in my paper later.

I quickly patch my dress together and put it on. Even though the hem is only basted, it is beautiful. The golden bustier is inset with two hot red panels on each side and the gathered bell of gold chiffon falls mid-thigh. I’m running late to meet you so I sprint through the métro, my dress’ layers of chiffon billowing behind me. “La jaune! La jaune!” a French man calls out as I run by, which literally translates to “The yellow! The yellow!” The stranger’s remark is so funny I can hardly stop myself from laughing.

The electronic board in the métro says the next train is ten minutes away. I’ve never seen a train so delayed at just before seven o’clock. Any possibility there may have been of my being only a few minutes late is gone. My lateness removes an element of romance from the evening—I won’t be able to meet you on the steps and walk with you into the halls of Opéra. I call you and tell you to go on in without me.

“No, I’ll wait.” You’ve already arrived and are waiting for me on the steps.

“No, just go in. If I’m not there in ten minutes just go in.”

“No, I’ll wait.”

My affections for you bubble excitedly inside me at hearing you insist on waiting for me, the gentlemanly thing to do. “No, no go on in,” I insist. “I’ll be fine. I’ll probably be there in twenty minutes. Just go on in.”

“Alright, I’ll wait ten minutes and if you’re not here, I’ll go in.”

The train comes in half the projected time and the cars fill to the brim, hot bodies pressed tightly one against the other like in a tin of sardines. At Opéra I run out of the métro and across the street. The front steps are bare—you’re awaiting me inside. The penguin-suited attendants check my ticket and send me rushing up the steps, my red ballet flats tapping delicately on the pale cream marble. As I go up the steps I take in everything. Stout toffee balustrades line the staircase and warm light sparkles across the grand crystal chandeliers. Towering dark chocolate and ivory marble columns capped with gilded Corinthian capitals are everywhere and the ceiling is painted with softly colored mythological scenes. The opulent setting, my homemade silk organza dress, and knowing you are waiting for me makes me feel like a Disney princess on her way to meet her prince in disguise. The feeling is exquisitely corny, the kind of romance I have always secretly dreamed of. Although, of course, there is no genuine romance here, since you have a girlfriend.

At the top of the steps, I see the theater box doors, each flanked by busts of the great men of French history. An elegant young woman dressed in a black skirt suit unlocks my door.

I quietly slide into my seat. The ball of your head is silhouetted against the gilded Baroque balconies. Seeing you sends a wash of calm through me, dissipating every fluster in my system. “Hey,” I whisper. You turn toward me and run your eyes down my body, your warm chestnut irises gleaming. You’re dressed for the occasion, though in seasonally inappropriate clothes—a wool argyle sweater and ironed slacks.

The ballet has just begun. Earlier today, I read the synopsis of
La Fille mal gardée
on Wikipedia. The ballet tells the story of a young, pretty farmer’s daughter who is pursued by a hot bad boy but encouraged by her parents to marry a dorky, albeit wealthy suitor. I watch your eyes following the dancers. The maidens dressed in gingham pastels glide gracefully around lead girl Lise’s poetry-in-motion arabesques. While Lise churns butter, her handsome love, Colas, dances seductively around her in his skintight, marigold pants. The way you observe the ballet—intent, thoughtful, absorbed—reminds me of the way you have observed art during class.

When the curtain closes over the stage for intermission, the women in front of us squeeze by, leaving us alone in the box.

“I’m so sorry I was late,” I say.

“No worries.” You turn your gaze back to the opened door at the back of the box. “I think it’s funny they lock you in here.”

I mull over the custom, trying to see your point of view. “It seems appropriate to me. Very traditional, very French.” I nod to the door. “Do you want to go out?”

“Sure.”

In the hallway outside the theater boxes we sit side by side on a bench and watch people as they walk by us. Our friendship now has an intimacy far deeper than if we had seen a ballet when we originally planned. Anyone who sees us might wonder if we’re on a date. We may as well be dating for all the time we spend together, all the outings that could so easily be romantic. For now, though, our relations lack the physical intimacy that is integral to real romance.

“I like seeing everyone in Paris dressed-up,” you say.

“Me too.” I think of my own dress and want you to tell me I look nice. “I made my own dress but I didn’t really have time to completely finish it—that’s why I was late.”

You look at my dress, nod, and revert your eyes to the people walking by us.

The theater bell rings and we return to our seats. As we wait for the curtain to rise, my stomach grumbles. I dearly wish to go to McDo with you
après le ballet
like Carrie Bradshaw and Aleksandr Petrovsky do on
Sex and the City.
It would be so cute and would make our evening feel even more like a real date. I turn to you and ask, “Would you like to get a cheeseburger after?”

“Yeah, Professor was eating a cheeseburger earlier today during class and it made me want one.”

Your previously established craving for a cheeseburger makes me change my mind about McDo. “We could go to Breakfast in America.”

“What is Breakfast in America? Professor talked about it, but I wasn’t sure what it was.”

“It’s an American-style diner run by some American guys, I think. It’s the best American food I’ve had in Paris. You’ll swear you were in America. French people like it because they get to practice their English.”

“Sounds good.”

The second half of the ballet moves more quickly. I’m elated. Here we are, dressed up to see a ballet and having dinner afterward, too, just like a proper date!

Onstage, Alain, the ballet’s goofball, gets engaged to Lise, to her disappointment, but not his. In celebration of their engagement, he brandishes two bottles of wine with a wide grin on his face, reminding me of how foolishly you behaved last night. It doesn’t occur to me that although I compare you to the fool, I am attracted to you as though you are like Colas, who is a paradigm of the ideal man. He is handsome, charming, and devoted to his beloved Lise.

Like every happily-ever-after story, love conquers all in the end. Lise’s mother permits her to marry Colas and Alain finds happiness with the umbrella he had been happily brandishing throughout the play.

We clap for several encores, as the French nearly always do to show their appreciation for theater.

“That was great, wasn’t it?” I say. “It was so funny! I’ve never seen a funny ballet. Usually ballet is so serious.”

You nod. “It was pretty funny. I liked it more than I thought I would.”

We descend the shallow marble steps along with the flowing tide of other couples. Outside, the sunset’s dusky gold tipped with pink and lilac light is falling over the grand, charcoal-gray rooftops. Rarely have I ever experienced such a spectacle of beauty in a single evening.

We head into the métro and wait for the next train in the lavender seats. I look over at you dressed in your brown argyle sweater, pinstriped dress shirt, baggy dark brown slacks, and square-toed black leather shoes that appear to have been designed for a large duck. You have the appearance of a charming little old man but your effort in dressing up is commendable. Although I do not think you look nice, I tell you that you look nice in the hopes that you will say it back to me.

“Thanks,” you say. I frown and anxiously rub the silk of my dress between my fingers, mulling over the morality of my white lie. But then you say what I have wanted to hear from you all evening, “You look nice too.”

My cheeks beam. “Thank you!”

The métro rolls into the station and we board, sitting side by side, our bodies brushing slightly as the train moves along. Your elbow lightly nudges my waist, our knees knock for milliseconds, our shoulders rub briefly against each other. Each brush of your body against mine sends tingles through my body and hot surges of desire flows through my abdomen. My mind’s focus is fully absorbed by my skin’s heightened sensitivity. The silk chiffon layers of my dress against my abdomen and thighs are exquisitely soft. I brush my hand over the heap of silk in my lap and say, “My dress is so soft.”

“Can I feel it?”

“Sure, go ahead.”

You pinch a tuft of the silk between your fingers. As you release it, you pat my leg, your fingers extended over the curve of my thigh. A tendril of hot energy runs up my thigh and settles there. “Very soft.” You meet my gaze, your eyes glimmering with lasciviousness. I want to straddle you between my thighs, allowing the silk of my dress to envelop your torso. When I’m done with you, you will know everything about the softness of silk and my skin.

At Luxembourg we descend from the train and glide up the escalator. You stand one step above me and turn to look at me. Your eyes rove down my body. “You do look nice.”

“Thank you! It’s my McDonald’s dress. I had wanted the side panels of the bustier to be bright magenta, like the rim of a yellow-pink rose, but the closest shade the fabric store had was this hot red.” I run my hand over the red panel that lies at the side of my left breast. “So instead of looking like a rose in bloom I look like I’m wearing Ronald McDonald’s new line of couture.”

You chuckle. “Yeah, it’s kind of got that fast-food thing. The red and the yellow . . . and we’re going to eat at a diner. It’s appropriate. And the red shoes, too.”

“Hah, yup! My red shoes are my signature, though. I had to wear them!”

We stroll along the winding streets.

Although Bastille Day was only yesterday, it feels like a faded memory. You don’t seem to remember how insistent I was about wanting you to come home with me. It’s pretty funny though, that the ballet’s fool reminded me of how drunk you were last night. I tell you that when the fool held the wine, I thought “Hey, that’s you!”

“Ha, but then he gave them away. I wouldn’t do that.”

“Really?” I playfully knock my knuckles into your warm, wool-covered shoulder. “That’s awful!”

You smile with a sly, mischievous gleam in your eyes, but before you can say anything your phone buzzes in your pocket. You pull it out and snap it open. “Hey,” you say. On the other end, I can hear a girl’s voice. I can’t make out what she’s saying but she doesn’t sound happy. “I left you a message on facebook chat,” you tell her defensively. “Yeah, but it leaves it even after you log off . . . I told you, I’m going to Opéra with a friend.” You finish the conversation and return your phone to your pant pocket where it nestles against your warm thighs. “Girlfriend,” you explain.

I say nothing. I prefer not to think of the reason we can’t be together.

Breakfast in America appears as we turn down rue des Écoles, a beacon of light among shops closed for the night. Inside, we are greeted by odors of sizzling burgers, freshly made fries, and creamy milkshakes. Silver stools with rust-colored cushions are lined up along the bar, bottles of mustard and ketchup sit neatly on each table, and strings of plastic American flags hang from the ceiling. I imagine you’ll happily comment on the flags, since you often mention how much you miss America.

The hostess seats us in a booth near the back and gives us each a menu, but I don’t need to look at it. “All I want is a burger and fries. And a strawberry milkshake. My friend had one here and she let me taste it. It was amazing. Totally worth five euros.”

Your tongue slides over your lips as you gaze hungrily at the menu. “A milkshake does sound good.”

A young, pretty girl comes to our table with a notepad in her hands. She’s wearing fitted blue jeans and a tight t-shirt, the uniform of US youth. She holds herself with confidence and poise, her feminine line curving beautifully with her every movement. Her French elegance is rooted at her core. It doesn’t matter that she’s dressed in an American costume. I know you will find her attractive and a wave of jealousy heats my back. I sit up straighter, pushing my jealousy away so you do not see it.