Two Americans in Paris (8 page)

Professor hands out our graded exams. We each take our own and stow it away.

“We’re still set for
Transformers
tonight?” I ask you. You nod. “Headed to the métro?” I ask. You nod again. We walk away from the class and toward the animal statues gathered near the entrance to the métro. “How did you do?” I ask.

“I wait three hours after getting an exam back to look at the grade. It’s part of my effort to deemphasize the importance of grades . . . sometimes it’s hard.”

My first inclination is to wait three hours from now and text you to see what your grades were. Nothing makes me more curious than withheld information. I quickly realize, though, that wanting to know your grades so badly is exactly why you wait, so I abandon my plan. I admire your patience and your belief that learning is the primary value of a class, a belief we share.

Thinking over the material we covered in class this afternoon, I ask you if you have any ideas about why Manet often didn’t paint fingernails on his subjects.

You nod knowingly—you’ve thought about this too. “I think it’s a form of Manet’s signature on his paintings. Like on
The Fifer
, he signs it twice. The lack of fingernails is an indicator that ‘this is a Manet’. I like seeing the uniqueness in each artist’s work—what it is about their artworks that make their work distinctive from all the other artists’ work. For Manet, the lack of fingernails is one of those things.”

As you speak, the landscape of possibilities for Manet’s motives broadens in my mind and the roots of my attraction to you sink deeper into me. “I hadn’t thought of that angle. I thought it was maybe just Manet’s big joke on the art history world—that he would think it’s funny we would be puzzling over the lack of fingernails in his work centuries after his death.”

You grin, your eyes meeting mine. “Hah, maybe that too. Who knows? ‘It’s one of those art historical anomalies,” you say, cheekily quoting Professor. “Maybe we should go wake Manet up from his grave and ask him about it.”

Before I am able to make a witty comeback, I step on one of the large stone tiles near the métro and it shifts, the scrape of stone against stone tickling my inner ear. You step on the same loose stone and yelp like a surprised puppy when it shifts under you.

“Oh, uh, that surprised me,” you say. Your attempt to explain away your yelp only endears you to me further. I have an urge to kiss your bright, perfectly round head out of pure adoration, but I hold myself back. If all goes well, I might be able to give expression to my sappy desire later.

Inside the métro, we pass through the turnstile and turn to go in opposite directions on RER B, but before parting we stop to say goodbye to each other.

At this moment you look so content. Your body is relaxed, your form as handsomely proportioned as a classical sculpture of an ideal man. I want to envelop you completely, to knit my chest to yours so I might feel your cheer and warmth. You do nothing more than wave to me with a casual “See you tonight!” and walk off into the murky dark of the métro.

She is sitting with you on an open lawn, watching a dazzling meteor shower explode the world like fireworks

In anticipation of seeing you, I arrive at the Odéon movie theater where we are seeing
Transformers
a little early. I buy my ticket, which costs only three euros instead of nine due to a coupon given to me by my supervisor at the library. When he offered the coupon to me I felt compelled to ask him for another so I would have one to give to you, too. “Is your friend not rich, too?” he asked. “Oh, no, he’s not,” I said. “He’s on a budget, just like me.” The thought of giving you this small token fills me with joy for, I hope, it will cause you to brighten even for the briefest moment.

While waiting for you I study the crimson carpet, hoping to soon see your feet appear near my own. In my message inviting you to see the movie with me I instructed you to arrive a half hour before the movie begins in case you might be a little late, which you are. Just as I begin to worry about why you are not yet here I look outside and spot you framed by the glass doors.

For a moment I think you look like a figure in an Impressionist sketch. You stand slouched against a bench beneath the boughs of a small tree. The early evening light models your form with warm sepias and tints your freckles terracotta. A pale lilac shadow lies against your sage temple. You look so handsome and unassuming while you are lost in thought, unaware of my gaze.

I heave open the thick glass door and make my way to you. I call your name and your eyes find me. You are at my side almost instantly.

“Sorry I’m late,” you say, bowing your head.

“No, no it’s fine. I already bought my ticket.” I turn toward the theater, ready to go in with you so you can buy a ticket too, but you stay put.

You continue talking, determined to explain why you were late. “I do this speed-walking thing and I think I did something to my knee. It’s okay to walk, but not very fast, which slowed me down getting here. And going up stairs, like in the métro, it hurts.”

“I hope your knee heals soon! Are you going to go to the doctor if it doesn’t get better, though?” Many men are too proud to seek medical help even when it’s obvious they need to and it’s important to me that you are humble enough to seek help when you need it.

“If it’s not better by Monday, I’ll definitely go to the doctor.”

At the ticket counter I hand you my second coupon. “It makes your ticket three euros.”

You light up at my unexpected gift, as I hoped you would. “Awesome, thanks!”

Tickets in hand, we descend the stairs into the theater. No one asks to see our tickets and the theater is empty but for us.

We choose a seat in the middle toward the back. The neat rows of empty red seats before us remind me of how early we are but I am glad to have a little time to chat with you before the film begins.

You pat the padded armrests and move around excitedly in your well-cushioned seat. “The French take their movie watching very seriously.”

“They do. It’s a much stronger aspect of culture here.”

A woman comes in and chides us in French for being in here without having shown our tickets. We hand them over and apologize for not having done so before sitting down.

“Bah, oui!” she says, exasperated. She tears off the ticket stubs and walks away.

I look at my halved ticket and think of why I chose to see
Transformers
with you in this specific theater. It is within walking distance of your apartment, so the chance of your rejecting it as a location to see the film was unlikely. There is also a small sangria bar nearby and I intend to ask you to have a drink there after the movie. I am terrified you will decline. Your agreement to join me for a drink afterward means far more than I would like to admit. It is just a drink, isn’t it? The worst you can say is no. Maybe I should ask you now so our plans are set in place before the film begins. But asking you now would lack the appearance of spontaneity I wish my invitation to have. I decide to wait.

While watching the game of seduction between Megan Fox and Shia LaBeouf set against a backdrop of Transformers at war, our forearms shift on the armrest, exchanging warmth that feels like an electric charge. I am careful, though, to prevent our forearms from touching so you do not think I wish they did.

By the end of the film, the combination of the explosion-ridden action sequences and the high caused by having you so close to me for two hours leaves me a little breathless.

We shuffle up the stairs among the other theater-goers pouring from the theater. I don’t want the evening to end. My chest is heavy with trepidation, for I am about to ask you to have a drink with me and your answer will determine whether you are interested in getting to know me better. To distract myself from the upcoming task I focus on the vibrant, crimson red carpet and the way your jeans crease beneath your firm rump as you move. We cross the threshold of the glass doors and step into the cool breath of the late evening paved with charcoal and lit with amber.

I stop outside the doors and ask you if you would like to have a drink with me. Your turn your head swiftly toward me. “Sure.”

“There’s a sangria bar nearby, dix rue de l’Odéon.” I’m on the move, my insides simmering with a mixture of bubbly, giddy joy and relief, and you’re following me.

“You know, I think the movie was good,” I say. “Like Professor said, all art is a reflection of the time in which it was made, and I think this qualifies. “

“Yeah. My brother is really into film, and apparently the director, Michael Bay, really likes actually blowing things up, which costs a lot of money. But it looks cooler,” you say, rounding your lips over the “oo,” a quirk of your speech.

“And when Shia LaBeouf’s character refuses to say ‘I love you’ to Megan Fox, it’s not only to keep her hanging on, but also to keep the audience watching, waiting to hear him say it.”

“Yeah, of course! What’s not to love? You just go up to her, and say you love her.” You raise your arm as if toward her, ready to profess your love.

A thread of jealousy weaves through my mind. Megan Fox is beautiful but, in my opinion, has little more to offer than that. “She’s pretty but her look is very artificial. She needs a nice, long bath. Then I’d take one with her.” I look to you, hoping you will think of this image later when I am not around and you wish I were.

“Really?” You raise your eyebrows, eager to hear more.

“Yeah. She wears too much makeup, but after a bath she might be genuinely good-looking.”

The road diverges into three smaller streets and I search the building facades for a blue street sign but there appear to be none. “We’ll go back and find a map,” I tell you. “All the bus stops have maps on them.” I turn around and walk quickly, eager to resolve our lack of direction, but I quickly notice you are lagging behind me. “Oh, your knee.” I slow my pace to yours.

“It’s not that bad,” you assure me.

We walk over the island of pavement at the center of Odéon toward the bus stop. My entire body is vibrating, my thighs especially, making my steps feel uneven and jerky. I even-out my gait as best I can so you do not see how shaken I am. I am nervous and full of anticipation for what may happen between us in the coming hours. My airways are stuffed with the odors of lilac and honeysuckle. The scents are aphrodisiacal, intensifying my dazed state, which I must constantly harness so you do not notice it. I feel as if roller coasters are spiraling through my limbs and my skin is barely able to contain the hot energy coursing rapidly through me. At the bus stop I study the map, determining that rue de l’Odéon is the road at the center of the other two. We turn back.

My nerves calm a little now that I know exactly where the bar is. On our way we pass restaurant windows that mirror our reflections with a silvery tint. Finally, we come upon Le Bar 10.

The bar is petite and has an intimate atmosphere. It is lit by soft, golden light and the walls are paneled with mahogany. Rows of small glasses sit on a shelf behind the bartender, who is old and gruff but accommodating. The prices are scrawled in chalk across a blackboard above him and beside him is a wooden barrel filled with sangria.

I greet the bartender with a friendly “Bonjour” and ask him for sangria for two. He bluntly says “Bon” and gestures for us to sit.

You slide across a bench against the wall and I pull out a chair opposite you. I eye the empty space on the bench next to you, thinking of how I would love to sit there so our thighs might touch intermittently, but my desire is both too intense and insidious, so I stay in my seat. Although my limbs may not brush against yours from here, I do have a better vantage point from which to admire you. Your t-shirt is a cool baby blue that complements the creamy hues in your skin. On your shirt there is a nude woman outlined in ballpoint-ink blue. She is outfitted only with wind-up keys: one for her mouth, each nipple, and one plugged into her back. She is kneeling with her head thrown back, her pose designed to insinuate she is in the throes of sexual pleasure. Her body reminds me of my own—slender but fleshed with curves that create a line of beauty only the female form can achieve. To her left reads the acronym PIMP: Positive Intellectual Motivated Person, which, along with the wind-up woman, makes me wonder why you are wearing this t-shirt. You may be positive, and certainly you are intellectual, motivated, and a person, but you are not a pimp. I refuse to believe that you view women as a series of orifices into which you might stick your various appendages.

A cold clay pitcher is set on our table with two small, chilled glasses that blush with humidity at the touch of our warm fingers. I pour us each a glass.

“Cheers. To new friends in Paris,” you grin.

I grin back, “Cheers.”

We clink our glasses and each take a sip. The sangria is delicious, the full-bodied red wine enhanced with cinnamon spices and citrus.

I nod to your t-shirt. “Positive Intellectual Motivated Person.”

“Yeah, pimp!” you say.

“Yes, I got that . . .”

“Well, there are men who treat women like this. They use women as bodies to play with like toys,” you explain.

“But those women are also allowing themselves to be treated that way,” I counter.

You tilt your head as if to consider my opinion but say nothing further on the topic. Instead, you change the course of the conversation. “I got this in Barcelona,” you say, looking down at your t-shirt. “While I was there, we went to this bar called The Opium Den, and there were these hookers. One of them grabbed my balls. Just grabbed them. She wouldn’t let go.”

“What did you do?”

“I told her I didn’t like women. She said ‘Really? How is that possible?’ I told her, ‘It’s how God made me.’” You grin, your eyes sparkling with your sly charm.

“Did she let go?”

“Yeah, she finally did.”

The sangria pulses through my system, numbing my gums and the undersides of my lips. I look over at a young couple drinking sangria and canoodling near the window. I wish we could be doing that, but remind myself of how grateful I am to have met you at all. Over the past year I have longed for someone special to take to this sangria bar. I always imagined I would manage only to find a reasonably attractive intellectual to take here with me. You are far better. You live life with verve and have a superior acuity of mind which is enhanced exponentially by your desire to learn all you can from anyone and everything you encounter. You are also more handsome than I dared hope you might be. Here, the soft, warm light makes you look like a figure in a Rembrandt painting. Your eyes glimmer with your youthful intelligence and your irises, colored with shades of maple sap and tawny scotch, are flecked with the reflection of the lights around us.

In taking time to appreciate your appearance I notice the skin around your mouth is perfectly smooth. I wonder if you shaved for the occasion of our
rendez-vous
this evening. “You shaved!”

“Yeah. Do you have a preference?” You turn your head, moving your fingers over your lip and chin, presenting your face for my consideration, and presumably, admiration.

I wonder if my preference is to be based purely on aesthetics or on how your face would feel to my touch, too, so I consider both. Aesthetically, your ruggedly handsome features are attractive with a mustache or without one. When kissing you, would I rather feel the hard bristles against my lips or instead the soft, warm skin of your freshly shaven face? I find myself unable to choose, for I want them both and everywhere in between. I want the stubble after a few days, the soft, smooth skin when you are freshly shaven, and the bristle of your beard, especially when it is grown-out because you have been working so much you forget to shave.

“Both suit you well,” I say, guarding the rest of my answer beneath my tongue.

As we talk you add winks at the end of any sentence that could be construed as flirtatious. Each of your winks makes me so deliriously giddy I completely forget what it is you said that was followed with a wink. Your winks mean to me that you’re interested in giving me more than the pleasure of speaking with you. The thought that you may actually acquiesce to my desire causes glowing balls of elation to float like hot suns within me, suspending my sense of reality for precious moments.