Two Americans in Paris (26 page)

It occurs to me that your asking me if I would date you could just be out of curiosity. “So, would you date me?”

“Yes, if not for your being in Boston, me in Philly, my girlfriend . . .” A wistful expression passes briefly across your face but is replaced by a resolve before you continue speaking. “I like having sex with women, but I don’t like
being
with women. Like, in relationships. Which begs the question of why I am in one.” Your cheeks break into a seductive half-smile, taunting me. “But I don’t have an answer that would satisfy you.” Your look up at me, your eyes sparkling with lust I long to have poured down my throat. “It used to be good. But it isn’t the same anymore and she refuses to acknowledge that. I can’t hold her hand and it make my week. I miss infatuation, crazy love . . .”

“You’ll find that again.” I hope you will find it with me.

You sigh. “All this stuff with my girlfriend . . . it’s one thing when one person loves the other person more than the other, but when it’s obvious and you both admit it, it’s not fair. She really loves me. She treats me like a king. I’m an asshole to her.”

This is the first I have heard from you that your relationship is not going well, as I have suspected. It is also the first time you have told me anything substantive about your girlfriend. Rather than hate her, I identify with her. I also treat you like a king by doing all I can to provide you every pleasure and you are not infrequently an asshole to me. Unlike your girlfriend, I am not dim enough to think I would be happy in a relationship with you, however jealous I may be that she gets to have sex with you. I am happy, at least, that your girlfriend loves and cares for you. However, your relationship is doomed unless she starts respecting herself more and you start returning some of the care and love she has given you. “That’s not fair to either of you.”

“It’s not fair to
her
.”

“You could be friends with her afterward.”

“I would, but I don’t think she’d want to. I mean, you know someone pretty well after four years.”

I’m surprised your relationship has lasted so long in spite of your womanizer tendencies. “You’ve been together that long?” I raise my eyebrows.

You nod, “Yeah.”

I don’t want to talk about your girlfriend anymore so I redirect the conversation. Again emboldened by your having told me you would date me, I ask, “You want to know when I decided I wanted to sleep with you?” You nod. “Versailles.”

“Which . . .” You move your hand back and forth, as if between our two visits.

“The first time. Between walking from the train to Versailles. You just said you read and that was it.”

“Well, I’ll have to remember that.” You grin, enjoying teasing me.

“No, mm.” I wave my hand as if to erase your last sentence. “It’s not about that, it just is. It’s more than just the book stuff now. We always have a great time when we go out.”

“Well, I’ll have to remember that,” you repeat, teasing me more.

I blush and stifle a grin, not wanting you to think your teasing overexcites me.

Our beer glasses are lined with foam so we pay and emerge from the bar into the cool evening dark. At the entrance to the RER you embrace me, wrapping me in your warmth. You are so soft, so perfect in my arms. Our embrace lasts a little longer than usual but, as always, you pull away. You ask me to call you when I get home and saunter off.

I board the next RER train and exit at Saint-Michel Notre Dame. Rather than take the bus the rest of the way home, I decide to walk.

As I move from street to street, chilly mist brushes my cheeks. My chest feels hollow without yours pressed to mine. To fill the void, I imagine you are at my side, weaving with me through the buttermilk light of the night. I think over our evening conversation. It could be so lovely to date you, one day—perhaps even to build a life with you: a home, children, everything. In my mind, our life together is full of adventure, a sort of fairytale we create as we go. Most of all, although I hate to think it because of the emotional repercussions, there is love between us. Even though I would have denied it if you had asked me in Paris, I do love you. I love you more than words can bear.

She thinks going out to chop wood would be the most manly thing to do right now

The following evening, you call me to ask for my help obtaining your train ticket tomorrow. I agree instantly. Ever since you told me that you had chosen Padd to help you with getting your train ticket to Vienna, I have longed to be chosen instead. We agree to meet at Gare de l’Est tomorrow at ten.

The next morning as I glide up the escalator in Gare de l’Est, I look up at the frosted glass cabochons set in the stone ceiling that glow with soft amber light. Long, purring trains are lined up along the tracks like silver dragons, each promising to bear its passengers to a distant land. I comb the station for you, searching for a glimpse of your world-round head or trig, handsome body, but cannot find you.

I call you and we describe our locations to each other but neither of us is able to determine where the other is. We finally agree to meet by train track nine. At long last, I spot you. Your shoulders are sloped down and you’re frowning, as if you have already resigned to the frustrating experience of getting your ticket. We greet each other with a strained “Hey.” I follow you to the end of the almost unmoving ticket line. Because you want to use your Euro rail pass, which requires special advice, we have to wait in line with other people who have a complex issue that takes time to resolve.

While we wait, I admire the station’s neoclassical architecture. The fluted columns are elegant and the caryatids graceful. Although the structure is all stone, the atmosphere is alight with a sense of freedom to go anywhere at a moment’s notice. On a whim, I could run off with you to the Swiss countryside. We would ride majestic black stallions up hills of grass as thick as a blanket, looking out on landscapes of charming cottages and hills fading to misty blue in the distance. “I like being in train stations,” I say. “I feel like I could go
anywhere
at any moment. If you could go anywhere from here, where would you go?”

You grin mischievously. “Vienna.”

“Hah. I guess that’s why we’re here?”

You nod.

The line moves as slow as molasses. I become antsier by the minute as you appear increasingly bored. I feel responsible for entertaining you. If we are meant to be romantic partners, an hour together should not be so dull. I point out the signs on the wall advertising trains bound for numerous French cities. Your interest is momentarily piqued, but not enough to engage you in conversation.

You look me up and down and point out I’m wearing jeans and black flats. Both are aberrations from my typically skirted outfits with red flats.

“Just for you! I wanted you to see what I look like when I’m not wholesome and prim-looking,” I joke. My outfit is different because we have plans to go row-boating in the Bois de Boulogne later. I don’t want to get my nice clothes dirty.

“You aren’t wholesome or prim.” You guffaw, looking up at me through your reed-brown eyelashes.

I almost contradict you, but find I cannot. I purse my lips and search my mind for something else to talk about. “Oh! I have something for you.” I take the latest issue of
CORE
, AUP’s Humanities journal, out of my purse and give it to you.

You perk up instantly and flip through the pages, pausing to read parts that catch your attention.

“I wrote an article in there,” I say.

“I’ll have to read it!” you say.

“It’s about fashion, though.”

“Oh. Well, then maybe not.”

I playfully jab your shoulder. “You should still read it! You might learn something. And I’d like to know what you think of it.”

Before you can respond, the people in front of us leave to be helped by one of the ticket cashiers—we’re next in line. You lean in to me and discreetly say, “If you don’t mind, I’d like to try to use my French. Only if I need help, you can jump in.”

“Ok.”

A young, handsome man behind the counter motions for us to come up. We greet him and you express in good but imperfect French that you want to buy a ticket to Vienna. He asks you if we will be travelling together.

In response you stare back at him silently. You probably just don’t understand what he said, but this doesn’t occur to me. Instead, I wonder if your silence indicates your sudden realization that you will soon be parting from me. More likely, though, I am just projecting. The thought of being parted from you, perhaps forever, feels like a part of myself is being taken away, like a beautifully furnished room ripped harshly from my inner walls. I console myself with the fantasy—one of many I will surely indulge in while we are apart—of how lovely it would be to tour Vienna with you. We would seek Klimt’s gilded hydra in the Belvedere, sink into a dinner of Wienner Schnitzel with a dessert of apricot-chocolate Sacchertorte, and stroll down an imperial garden bedded with scarlet roses while discussing the infinite joys and beauties of life. I can’t join you this time, though. I answer in French for you, “No, just him.”

You begin to explain in French about your Eurorail pass and wanting to use it to go to Vienna. The young French man quickly deduces you are Anglophone and responds in perfect English, to your relief. Due to the complexity of needing to buy a separate ticket and use your Eurorail pass, you decide to not use your Eurorail pass. You buy a ticket, full price—three hundred and twenty euros. The French man discreetly raises his eyebrows, but doesn’t argue.

As we walk away from the ticket counter, you quietly say, “I’m a worrier. I can tell he thought I was stupid. I just spent nearly all my money. I only have forty or fifty euros left. I’d rather pay more for the ticket and not have to worry about it.”

“Yup. He thought you were stupid.” I think you’re stupid too. You’ve just unnecessarily spent most of your money, leaving you with hardly any for your last week in Paris.

“Before going to the Bois de Boulogne, do you mind if we go back to my place first?” you ask. “I need to eat.”

“If we go back to your place, will you feed me?” I ask.

“Yes, you can eat too. I just have pasta and brie, though, which I think is pretty good, but fair warning. It’s a poor man’s meal.” You look to me with a grin, enjoying your self-imposed poverty.

I grin back. “Sounds good to me.”

We take RER B from Gare du Nord to Luxembourg.

As we walk through the Latin Quarter toward your building, my mind is flooded with fond memories from the year I lived here. “Being in the fifth makes me so nostalgic!” As soon as I have said it, I know you will frown upon my nostalgia. You favor a live-in-the-moment attitude. I attempt to explain myself. “I have trouble keeping myself in the present. Half the time I’m thinking about the past or imaging the future. It’s not good. I’m working on it.”

“I’m pretty good about staying in the present.”

“I admire you for it.” I flash a doting gaze at you. “And I can enjoy being right here, in this moment, walking with you down rue de l’Abbé-de-l’Epée. But I also think there’s value in fantasy, dreams, and nostalgia. It’s an escape, a means of exploration that inflects on our reality. Sometimes it is our reality. I mean, doesn’t Dumbledore tell Harry ‘Just because something is happening inside your head doesn't mean it’s not real.’”

You don’t respond. Your eyes are following a young woman striding by us. Her skin is bronzed and she is wearing high-waisted beige shorts and a striped top. Her eyes are large and water-blue, fringed with heavy, dark lashes like glossy cattails. A cascade of shiny brunette locks caress her shoulders and curl attractively around her full breasts. “Now her, she smells great!” you exclaim while she’s still within earshot. “What do you think of her?”

She’s gorgeous and I agree with you that she smells wonderful—like blood oranges and a freshly snuffed candle undercut by the brisk fall air that turns green leaves to a harmonized rainbow of color. However, asking for my opinion on the attractiveness of other women when you have a girlfriend and know I like you, too, is inconsiderate. You don’t deserve to know what I really think. All I say is, “Eh, nothing special.”

In your kitchen, you heat up a plate of already-prepared pasta it in the microwave.  Without offering me anything, you eat while browsing the internet on your laptop. Your eyebrows are furrowed slightly and your eyes are glazed with eager expectation, as though you are searching for something you both hope and dread finding. I strongly suspect whatever you are looking for has to do with your girlfriend. I don’t want to know about it. I am also astounded by your rudeness. You had assured me that I could eat at your place, too. “Would you mind if I made some pasta too?”

You answer without looking away from the screen. “Yeah, that’s fine. It’s in the cupboard above the microwave.”

While the pasta boils, you tell me you hope that you don’t come off as creepy when interacting with women.

“You’re not creepy,” I assure you.

“Not being creepy is one of my top three things to do each day. The first is probably pee because there’s almost nowhere to use the bathroom in Paris.”

When the pasta is cooked, I add some brie to it and devour my poor-man’s lunch at the table.

Before we leave, I go to use the bathroom, but there’s no toilet paper. There wasn’t any when I was here on Bastille Day, either. Very little seems to be going well today. “Oh my god there’s still no toilet paper!” I exclaim as I walk past you toward my purse, plucking a napkin from it. “Boys! Only boys would have no toilet paper for so long!”

“Sorry about that . . .”

Upon my return from the bathroom you put your laptop away. We return to the street, making our way to the Odéon bus stop. Without precedent you tell me, “My girlfriend’s sister is getting married today.”

“Okay.” I don’t want to talk about your girlfriend.

“My girlfriend is angry. I was supposed to fly back on the eighteenth for the wedding but I decided to stay longer. Her sister wouldn’t even let her take her best friend to the wedding with her instead of me.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“It is. But I want to see my uncle in Vienna. He’s a really interesting guy and I’ve really been looking forward to spending time with him. And I’ll also be spending time with my cousins.” You pause, gathering your frustration into a single sentence. “I don’t feel I should be prevented from seeing my family, but my girlfriend is really mad.”

I don’t want to commiserate with you, so I ask you a question that isn’t really relevant to your problem. “Are you upset about not being able to go to the wedding?”

“I’m not angry . . .”

I say nothing more. Your girlfriend is not a welcome topic of conversation.

You get the hint and change the subject. “When do you leave Paris?”

“The twenty-third.”

“Cool, I leave the twenty-second!” A spring of excitement travels up your spine and flows out to your whole body.

We sit on the pewter bench of the Odéon bus stop. Across the street a city worker is sweeping the street with the standard green broom all the city street sweepers use. Nearby is his little green truck.

“I wouldn’t mind doing that.” You gesture to the street sweeper.

“Being a little green man?” I ask.

“A little green man?” you ask.

“Yeah, my one friend calls them little green men because they drive around in those little green trucks.”

“Oh. I just don’t think any job has more value than another. I’d be a bus driver.”

My jaw clenches to prevent myself from saying anything. I don’t want to have an argument. I keep my rant to myself. The work you could do and are doing has so much more value than many other jobs.

You love your students. You understand how to make them passionate about reading and writing and you teach them to do it well. You inspire them and all the girls fall in love with you. Your students keep in touch with you and they keep reading.

Your work as a teacher has more value than the work of a bus driver or a street sweeper. Their work is essential and valuable—people get from place to place and litter is cleared away—but it’s unlikely their work has ever changed someone’s life. Your students learn
from you. Their minds grow and the opportunities they can take advantage of expands.

If you make it your ambition, you will improve the way we learn and make education equal for everyone in America. You have the whole world in your grasp. It is yours to change. You are so much more than you yet understand.

The bus rolls up, ending my silent tirade. We board and sit in the back, our bodies swaying in-tune with the bus’s motion. You ask if we can speak in French. Delighted that you have asked, I begin speaking in French quickly and about my favorite subjects, books and fashion. At first, you try to speak in French, but quickly give up. You respond instead in English, grinning cheekily as you do. Frustrated and disappointed that you aren’t doing as you asked me to do, I return to speaking in English too.

At the end of the line we disembark and make our way toward the center of the park.

As we walk, I feel an uncomfortable pressure on my bladder. I have to pee and now we’re in a park. I have no idea where a bathroom might be. I hesitate to say anything because I know you will be annoyed.

We pass a group of soccer players and you look at them longingly, making no effort to conceal your desire to join them even though you’re here with me. I pull your attention away from them, “Don’t hate me, but I have to pee.”