Two Americans in Paris (25 page)

“Hey,” she says to us with an American accent.

You look up at her and grin, your eyes sparkling. “Hey,” you say, the English word both familiar on your tongue and deliciously new to the context of ordering food in Paris. You order in English.

The waitress turns to me. Although I am devout to speaking French to the French, speaking French now would feel unnatural. I follow your lead and order in English. Our orders noted, the pretty waitress glides away.

“I was going to speak in French, but after she said ‘Hey,’ I couldn’t help myself. It sounded so familiar.” You gesture with your hand to your ear and then toward where she was standing.

“It just made more sense to speak in English. It’s what the French do,” I shrug.

Our burgers and milkshakes are soon set before us. They look as perfect and scrumptious as food does in magazine editorial. Our hamburgers are layered with crisp lettuce leaves, fleshy tomato slices, and juicy meat enclosed between plump, warm buns. The French fries are medium-thick and our strawberry milkshakes are cotton candy pink.

You take a sip of your milkshake and your cheeks flush a pale pink, your eyebrows rising for an instant in delighted surprise. “That’s the best milkshake I’ve ever tasted!”

I’m glad you like it so much.” I clasp my fingers around my own glass and take a long sip, savoring the sweet, creamy drink.

Between mouthfuls, we turn our gaze on the rest of the restaurant. The other diners sit paired in couples, their lips pursued slightly while conversing in French. You look up at the flags and grin. “Look at all the American flags.”

I am delighted my prediction was correct. “I saw those flags and I knew you were going to say something about them. And there, you did!” Feeling coy and romantic, and not caring at all that what I am about to say is a cliché, I add, “I know you too well.”

“You do,” you say, rounding your lips over the “o.” You meet my gaze and I feel as though our souls are pouring out toward one another, the space between us a quickly filling reservoir. I restrain an overwhelming urge to crawl across the table and clasp your hips between my shaking thighs, place my hand beneath your rib cage. My desire is so intense my thigh twitches involuntarily and my foot knocks against yours. The impact causes you to avert your eyes from mine. While you gather yourself, I take a huge bite of my burger.

“Is there
any
thing you miss from the states?” you ask. “Besides your family and friends.”

I swallow. “No, not really. I mean, I miss my family and friends, of course, but nothing about the physical United States. New England is pretty. I’m more inclined to miss Paris, before I’ve even left!” I pause, preparing to turn the question on you. “Is there anything you miss from the States?”

“I miss my motorcycle. I miss teaching.” You pause for a moment. “Sometimes I want to teach the rest of my life, encourage my students to go to college. Even if I get just one or two to go to college, that’d be a huge accomplishment.” You sigh a little. “Sometimes I want to change the whole state of American education.”

Your last sentence makes me so giddy I want to do a happy dance, but I restrain myself. Since our first conversation at Versailles, I had hoped you would have within you a desire to reform education in America. You could not do it alone, but you have the passion, intelligence, knowledge, and charisma to spearhead a movement to make education in America equal for everyone. My belief that you could successfully do so is inexhaustible. I imagine myself as the woman at your side, giving you support and strength. To compliment your efforts, I would co-author with you a popular blog on education reform. We would be a power duo, an unstoppable force of good. Together, we could change the world.

But my imagination is sappy and unrealistic. You may never become the man I believe you could become. After all, I could spearhead a movement to reform education myself, if it were my ambition. Yet I am convinced that we could accomplish more together. Even if it were true that we could accomplish more together, it is a waste of time to fantasize about it. I refocus my mind on our present conversation. “So what is so great about America? What does America have that you couldn’t get here?”

“America has open, never-ending roads, especially out West . . .” While you wax on about America, I consider America’s highways in a new light. Previously, I took them for granted as boring and seemingly endless paths from one place to another. Now I see them also as rife with open-ended possibilities, a unique and integral aspect of the American landscape.

You stare at our waitress as she glides about the diner. “She has that girl-next-door thing. She’s so beautiful.” You look back at me. “Do you find her attractive?”

I shake my head, “No.” If you like her, I do not. “There are hundreds of girls just like her. She’s pretty, but she’s nothing special.”

“I’m going to write a poem about her when I get home.”

Jealousy grips my system with its thorny claws, inspiring in me an uncomfortably sinister desire to tear our waitress to shreds. To calm myself, I think of how my friends have told me that jealousy is proof you care. More concerning to me, though, is her ordinariness. She’s just another pretty girl. I’m pretty too, as well as intelligent, eager to learn, well-traveled, ambitious, loving, and funny. I could have someone better than you, yet despite your flaws, I adore you endlessly. I am amazing and you don’t see it. I can do no more than hope you will one day see my positive qualities as I see yours.

As we move toward the door to leave we catch one last sight of our waitress. I know that the more you know about her the faster your attraction to her will fade. “Why don’t you talk to her?”

“I prefer to admire from afar.” You are smart enough to know that your fantasy of her is priceless. It allows you to imagine her not as she is but as however you like her to be. The preservation of your fantasy is what will allow you to write a poem about her.

We stroll along Saint-Germain until our paths fork. You press your chest to mine, the fuzzy wool fibers of your sweater nuzzling my bare upper chest. As you pull away, your scruffy facial hair grazes my neck and your warm breath brushes against my cheeks. My pulse thumps like a rabbit foot and thick shots of hot honeysuckle race through my veins. For a second I think you might lean in to kiss me, but you step back.

You ask me to call you when I get home rather than text, since your last cell phone bill was over ninety euros from texting. I know you only ask because you want to avoid another big bill, but the added intimacy of hearing your voice before I go to bed thrills me.

Inside my box, I stand at my window and call you.

“Thank you for calling,” you say.

“No problem,” I say.

You pause. “It’s so nice to hear your voice. Instead of the texts.”

“Hah. It’s nice to hear your voice, too.”

We chat about our final tomorrow and wish each other a good night.

She is building a crystalline forest. It cannot shatter. She won’t let it.

Unlike for our midterm, I don’t study to get an A so I can impress you. I want an A purely for myself.

In our classroom at AUP, I slide into a seat in front of you. I listen to you energetically turning around in your seat behind me as you address anyone who pays you attention. The version of yourself that you present to nearly everyone else—obnoxious, immature, cocky—is not a version of you I find at all attractive. It annoys me. I quietly prepare my desk for the exam.

Professor passes out the teacher evaluation forms and steps out of the room. Since the form is anonymous, I decide to write down what you had suggested I tell Professor—how brilliant and excellent a teacher I think he is and that if he weren’t married, I would marry him. I still don’t think it’s appropriate to convey this to Professor, even anonymously. He’ll almost certainly know I wrote it. I’m risking my entire relationship with him, maybe even undermining his work as a teacher, by writing all this. Your insistence that my sentiments should be perceived by Professor as flattering impels me to do it.

You lean forward, and I can feel your heat at my back. I think you might say something I want to hear, but instead you hand your teacher evaluation form to me and say, “Hey, you wanna bring this to the front of the room?”

I am disgusted you would take advantage of my feelings for you just so I’ll do some menial task for you. I look down at your form, which hardly has anything written on it. “No, you do it. And you barely wrote anything on it!”

“Yeah, I don’t think these things are very important.”

“But you’re a teacher! You should think these things are more important than anyone.”

You shrug and strut casually past me, your sandals shuffling across the floor, carrying your form to the table at the front of the room.

One of our classmates brings the evaluations to the registrar’s and Professor returns to the classroom.

Before we officially begin the final, I recall I can’t make it to see the latest
Harry Potter
film with you and Lady this afternoon as we had planned. Also, I want to see the film with just you. I lean back and whisper to you, “Hey, do you mind if we don’t see
Harry Potter
today with Lady? I have a huge paper I still need to finish writing. Can we go tomorrow instead?”

You nod, “Sure.”

The classroom settles as we prepare to answer complex questions about the various roles of art in modernity. I carefully construct my essays, drawing on my knowledge from class, fashion magazines, and the other art history courses I’ve taken.

I edit my exam and hand it in to Professor, leaving you writing away at your desk. Unlike at our midterm, I no longer think you are a more dedicated student than I am. You just take longer than me to complete your exam.

She is soaring on felicity’s gilded wings, inscribing lunar lullabies in the shadows of your shoulder blades

I wake up earlier than usual, refreshed and energized. During all the time prior to our meeting, I have slept in as late as possible, struggling to persuade myself to put my feet on the floor and subsequently pushing myself to accomplish the day’s goals. Now, even the most mundane tasks are pleasurable. I hum my way through the winding streets of Paris, blissfully content with the whole world while slipping postcards in the mail, dropping all my borrowed books off at the library, and collecting mail from my university mailbox.

My final errand for the morning is to slide my final paper for my Literary Theory course under my professor’s door. In doing so, I complete my undergraduate studies. I beam, ecstatic to have successfully completed my degree.

Outside of the building I stand next to one of the green benches, too excited to sit, and call you. Before we see
Harry Potter
this afternoon, I know you have to stop by AUP to pick up your laptop. I called at the perfect time, you say. You’ll be here soon.

I focus my gaze on the ivy-lined path where you will soon appear. I could read a book or listen to music but the anticipation consumes me. Several other young men and women pass by and I mistake each of them for you until their features reveal themselves to be so unlike yours, with a slide of long dark hair, a scruffy beard, or ice-blue eyes. I am so enraptured by the allure of seeing you imminently that I am hallucinating your image onto other people, just because they are also human.

While I wait, I count the seconds that turn to impossibly long minutes. Finally, I hear the sound of your sandals shuffling along the sidewalk. As you walk toward me the air around you appears to shimmer and all the bells in my body sound. A three-quarter smile brightens your face upon seeing me and happiness radiates from my soul. You are my beloved king, the path a runway for your supermodel saunter.

Without even greeting you, I blurt out, “I just turned in my last papers!”

“So you’re officially graduated?” you ask. I nod, grinning. You grin back, mirroring my happiness. “Does it feel good?”

“It feels wonderful.” Although I would never admit it aloud, part of my happiness is attributed to sharing this moment with you first—before I even share it with my family.

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?”

“They should have a natural curve that follows the shape of the foot. Too pointy isn’t good either. They pinch and they look unnatural.”

“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.