Two Americans in Paris (9 page)

“You’re into fashion, right?” you ask.

“I am.”

You pause for a moment, preparing your follow-up statement carefully, making me think I may not like what you say. “I don’t see why I can’t go into a thrift store and buy ten shirts for two dollars.”

I’ve heard this before so I have a response ready. “Well, you can, but those stores are meant for people who can’t afford to buy shirts for more than two dollars.”

You nod slowly. “Yeah. You can help me figure out clothes, if you want.”

“Maybe.” I’m surprised you have any interest in improving your sense of style. “I don’t know men’s fashion that well
.
I would have to do a lot of studying
.
I may be into fashion, but I hate shopping, really hate it
.
When I try clothes on in the stores nothing fits properly
.
I have a disproportionate body, so I began to make my own clothes—” I gesture to my torso, but before I am able to continue you interrupt me.

“I think you have a beautiful body.” There is no hint of cheekiness underlying your speech. Your words are sincere and your expression serious.

None of my lovers has ever called my body beautiful. They like the perkiness of my breasts, the length of my legs, and the width of my hips. Never have any of them expressed an attraction to my whole body. You have spent so little time with me and have not even seen me naked, yet you think my body is beautiful. I know I will treasure your compliment like a jewel stowed deep within my mind, but I do not wish you to know that. I simply thank you and again insist my body is not proportionate. You tilt your head in response, your eyes sparkling with disagreement.

I look down into my glass, which is as empty as the pitcher. “Would you like another round?”

“I’m good, but we can if you want to.”

“If you don’t mind, I sorta do. I haven’t been here in such a long time.” What I don’t say is that I also want to share a second pitcher to prolong our time together. I push my chair back and order another pitcher
pour deux
.

The bartender again says “Bon” and waves me back to my seat.

We stack our silver and gold coins onto the table in exchange for the second pitcher. I pour us each a glass.

You look into your freshly filled cup before taking a sip. “Look there’s ice!”

“I know. It’s to keep it chilled in the barrel.”

“Yeah, but you can’t find ice anywhere in Paris,” you sigh.

“Ice just isn’t really part of the culture here the way it is in the States.” I pause, wondering how well you know the French language. “So how’s your French?”

“It’s not good enough to have a meaningful conversation. I could talk about what I like to do and what I don’t, but nothing of real substance. And it’s not like the woman at the boulangerie or the guy on the street wants to stop and try to talk to me.”

“It can be hard to find people to talk to in French. It requires constant determination. How many years of French have you had?”

“Two.”             

I nod, thinking that two years of French would provide you with the ability to talk about basic subjects like sports and your favorite foods, but not much more. “I can have a meaningful conversation in French. My French isn’t perfect, but I can find a way around saying anything I want to say. It might take longer, but I get there.”

“That’s good.” You grin, your eyes on me with a look of admiration.

The more we talk, the more I feel as if I’ve known you for years rather than days. Talking to you feels so natural, as if there are endless subjects we may have meaningful, interesting conversations about. You also like to talk—you like to talk even more than I do. For a moment, I stop listening to your individual words and simply nod and smile, taking pleasure in your company.

“July fourth is coming up, Friday I think,” you say.

I hear this with sharp ears, for the fourth of July provides an opportunity for us to see each other again soon. “We should get hot dogs and celebrate.”

Your face illuminates at the thought of spending the American holiday in Paris with a fellow American—
moi
. “We should.”

I grin coquettishly. “It’s a very American-in-Paris thing to do.”

We empty the pitcher and set off into the fresh air of midnight with a warm buzz flowing through our bloodstreams.

“So you really don’t think Megan Fox is attractive?” you ask.

“No, I do, just . . . she needs a bath. She needs to be washed. And I’d be happy to do it.” I move my hand as if running a wet, soapy washcloth over her body.

“She’s so perfectly tan, mm, those lips!”

When we reach the island of pavement at Odéon you say something I never expected to hear. “This was my best night in Paris since I’ve been here. I mean, I’ve done things with other people from my program, but this was so much better.” You look at me and smile. “Of course, I liked the sangria more.”

I am so touched to hear you say this. It gives me hope that you might come to like me, too. Even if not, at least arranging to spend time with you should be easier than it has been. I feel I have successfully shared with you a small part of what really living here is like—just seeing a movie and having a drink with good company afterward. This is the Paris you fall hopelessly, completely in love with, a Paris that will live forevermore within you. I hope the Paris you take with you when you leave will include how you enjoyed my company here. I know you are already ingrained in my Paris. The bliss I find in living here is intensified exponentially by your presence. Like Paris, you are beautiful and bring new meaning to my understanding of the subjects dearest to me. Unlike my beloved city, you are a person with whom I may share my time here. For now, though, I am determined to not say anything that might make you suspect I like you. All I say is, “I’m glad! I really enjoyed it too. Although, I think I liked
Transformers
better.”

“Oh . . .” You bow your head.

I know it is truly vicious of me to say I preferred the closeness of our bodies in the movie theater to the lively conversation over drinks that followed. In truth, my favorite part of the evening was when you said you would join me for a drink. You said yes—that yes was my glee.

I don’t want to part from you this evening, but I know I soon will. To prolong our time together for five, maybe ten minutes more, I claim to need a landmark to direct my way home even though I know how to get home from here. “Rue Saint-Jacques is this way, isn’t it?” I point up ahead of us. “As long as it’s down there, I’ll know where I am.”

“Yes, it’s this way.”

The métro is closed since it’s after midnight so I will have to walk home, an hour’s walk from here. I run my eyes along the shops’ burglar-proof gates made of interlocking waves of metal, thinking that I have never before walked through Paris at this hour by myself. If your manners were more refined you would ask me to text or call you when I arrive home, but I feel this is something I will need to teach you the next time we see each other. I rummage through my memories of friends who have been mugged in Paris, attempting to determine how much potential danger I might be in. “You know, all the people I know who have been mugged in Paris are guys, actually.”

“So maybe I should be worried . . .”

I look at you for a moment, my handsome dear walking in the shadows. I think of how I would love to walk you home, but you are intelligent enough to avoid trouble. “Naw, I think you’ll be alright.”

As we near closer to the moment of parting with every step, I wonder how we will say goodbye. Simply heading off into the night with a mere wave is, by now, too impersonal. I often do
bisous
(a kiss on each cheek) with my European friends, but we’re both American, so
bisous
wouldn’t be appropriate. All I want is to kiss you. That doesn’t seem right either, considering you have a girlfriend.

A block before Saint-Jacques, the street you live on, you turn right. I stop, confused as to why you are turning early. “But Saint-Jacques is down there.” I point toward it.

“It’s faster this way.”

“Oh. But Saint-Jacques
is
down there?” I ask, feigning dumb. From here I can see the shop filled with miniature Pokéman and Star Wars figures that marks the intersection of Saint-Jacques and Saint-Germain.

“Yeah.”

So here we part. You pop your arms from your sides, inviting me into them. You want to
hug
me. It’s the simplest, friendliest gesture I hadn’t even thought of because my mind was so focused on my desire to kiss you. I walk into your arms and you rest your solid limbs in the curve of my back, pressing your warm chest to mine. You smell like soft, freshly washed cotton with hints of vanilla and winter evergreen. I would be so happy to stay in your embrace longer, but you pull back and turn toward home.

“Goodnight! Get home safely!” I call to you.

“You too! Good night!” you call back.

I turn down Saint-Jacques toward the Seine, which will guide my way home. As I walk I imagine you walk with me, a protective presence by my side. Even the thought of having you with me sends sparkles of excitement through my limbs, making Paris appear so much more beautiful than if I felt alone. The bridges over the Seine are silver-gray in the cloak of night. Across the Pont de la Concord the Hotel de Crillon is arranged with neat rows of Corinthian columns lit with golden orbs of light. As I pass the Musée d’Orsay I imagine the animal statues bounding about the courtyard. The rhino playfully butts the horse’s flanks while the elephant loops his trunk around the rhino’s thick leg. I turn down l’Esplanade des Invalides and inhale the delicate fragrance of the summer flowers flourishing within Invalides’ garden. By the time I arrive
chez moi
my body is weary from the long walk and I am glad to crawl into bed. I fall asleep thinking of you.

I dream that, along with many other couples, we are flying around the Église d’Invalides, our bodies intertwined so that we are held together as we circle the upper realms of the dome. Because of the way our bodies are intertwined your hand is pressed firmly between my thighs. Although it doesn’t seem your hand should need to be
there
in order for us to be held together, the pressure feels fantastic. “You know your hand is—” I say, unable to finish the sentence, as thinking of exactly where your hand is causes a rush of pleasure to run through my body, shutting off my speech. You look at me and smile in response as if silently asking, “Do you want me to remove it?” I respond as if you had spoken the words. “No, of course not, it just feels—” I’m again unable to finish my sentence. Another rush of pleasure is running through my body, its source stemming from the steady pressure of your hand.

With the arrangement of our intertwined bodies agreed upon, we enjoy our airborne view of the Baroque masterpiece. The walls are a bright, shimmering white and the giant statues of winged women in Grecian robes surrounding Napoléon’s tomb appear even more magnificent from our aerial view than I remember them being when I have viewed them from the ground. A group of sea-foam green marble peacocks decorate a statue’s base. They snap their beaks and lift their wings while we admire them, warning us that they are not to be touched, only looked at.

Once the dream has ended I spontaneously wake up and briefly think over how beautiful and unusual my dream was. I have had dreams where I am flying before, but never with someone else. Hoping I might see you again in my dreams, I fall back asleep with you on my mind.

This time I dream I’m walking through an office building. All of the walls and furniture are white, void of color. Everyone I see is seated behind a desk, quietly muttering to no one in particular. I walk into a room and find you talking to your girlfriend. She has shiny, black, bobbed hair, a slim yet well-fleshed figure, and is shorter than you. She is stylishly attired and has large blue eyes.

A thin screen blocks my body from your view so neither of you can see me, but I can see you. You are asking for her permission to cheat on her—with me, specifically. She laughs, thinking it hilarious of you to propose it. It’s unthinkable that you might cheat on her—you’re too good. You do not laugh with her, conveying you are serious about your request. Pain and anger show on her face and at seeing how your request has hurt her your expression saddens. I feel the need to leave. Despite how much I would like to use the knowledge I might gain about your relationship to my advantage by staying in this room longer, I know the rest of this conversation is not for me to hear. I leave the room and continue walking until the dream fades away.

Upon waking up, I analyze my two dreams, which are perfect metaphors for how I respond to you. The first conveys how close I feel to you as well as the extreme beauty and sense of freedom I find in spending time with you that I have never experienced with anyone else. Also, just being near you turns me on. You seem to enjoy this, or at least you don’t mind. The second dream illustrates how I perceive there to be sexual tension between us that cannot—or should not—be expressed while you are committed to your girlfriend. Although I have no feelings toward your girlfriend as a person, as I know nothing about her, I wish with every grain of my existence that you were single. If your girlfriend were not in your life, it would be possible for us to be together. There would be no question of cheating. As things are, you do have a girlfriend. The thought of being unable to sleep with you because you have a girlfriend pains me greatly, but the thought of becoming a home wrecker and losing your friendship pains me even more. I promise myself that I will not meddle in your relationship. I should think of you as my friend only, nothing more.