“We need to get you in these paintings, then.”
I point at the one in front of me. “I could take that bridge to New York. Another to Boston. I bet one of Monet’s bridges is in Tokyo. I’ve always wanted to go there, too, to see how vibrant and bright the city is.”
“Then you’ll go.” She bumps shoulders with me. “If you want something badly enough, you make it happen.”
I have to wonder if that includes someone, too, or if her work, and mine, will stand in the way before I chase my desire to cross all the bridges to everywhere.
17
Joy
I’m hot for teacher.
Or really, I should say hotter.
Every day I’m hotter for him.
But it’s more than lust that I feel.
Griffin’s not only my closest friend in France, he’s my daily companion. It almost feels like we’re two travelers exploring the world of Paris together. After hours, it’s like we’ve taken a sabbatical from life, and we’re intrepid wanderers, getting lost and found together in the streets, passages, and alleys of the City of Light. Him and me, me and him.
I’ve shared a house with another person, but I never felt like I wanted more time. But that’s what it’s like now. When I say good-bye to Griffin at the end of each night, my heart is a little bit lonelier, and when I wake up, that organ is eager once more, knowing I’ll see him soon at the office.
When I see him in the conference room, I want to grin, to flirt, to give him a thousand private looks that only he’ll understand. Even in the lab, when he translates the names of chemicals, I can hear him in my mind saying other things, like you look beautiful and let me take you out for a glass of wine.
When I leave the office, sometimes we shop, since that’s where I experience the real brunt of knowing or not knowing words.
On a Saturday afternoon, we go to the open-air market on Rue de Grenelle under the Metro bridge, and he urges me to barter for a lamp I want. It’s emerald green with a hanging chain as a switch. It’s so deliciously antique that I can’t resist it.
A stout woman with curly hair runs the stall. I ask her what year it’s from. I ask if she'll take less. I tell her I will return.
Je reviendrai. Griffin wants me to say that because the French have a specific word for come back. They don’t say return, he tells me.
So many words.
So many new ones.
My brain swims with new combinations of the alphabet.
As we wander to the other end of the market, buying walnuts and bread, I say the names of everything I see. And I don’t just say the names. I use them in a sentence.
Then we revenir, and I buy the lamp.
“You’re learning,” he says with a proud smile.
I might have doubted the blonde chocolatier, but I believe him.
I believe him because he makes me buy contact lens solution that evening, and then he kisses me good night, lingering on each cheek. He tells me he’s glad he could be there to help me at the pharmacy this time, but he’s even more glad he could see me do it on my own.
The next week he shows me the coolest Metro entrances, and then we decide to find more sundials, hunting for one engraved by Salvador Dali before we track down a sundial in the courtyard of a hotel frequented by the philosopher Jean-Jacques Rousseau. “Legend has it he was in love with the woman who ran the hotel and professed as much in a letter to her one day,” Griffin muses as we regard Rousseau’s sundial.
“And did she smother him in kisses and say she was madly in love, too?” I ask, hungry for this romantic tale.
He shakes his head, a rueful smile on his face. “No. It was, sadly, unrequited.”
My heart aches the littlest bit when I watch him walk away first. Has there ever been a crueler word than unrequited?
I try my best not to linger on it, telling Griffin I have something to show him. His eyes twinkle with excitement as I play tour guide this time, escorting him across the city to track down an angel three-stories tall serving as a column in the corner of an apartment building from 1860.
He cranes his neck heavenward, checking out the carving. “How did you know of this?”
“After I came across the first two angels, I did some research. There are angel statues and carvings and little hidden angels all over the city. You could add angels to your list of Parisian quirks.”
He turns his eyes to me. “You think I have a list of Parisian quirks?”
I nod. “Yes. Oddities and curiosities. Sundials, clocks, Metro entrances. I think you know the most unusual details about Paris. You’re a student of this city, every nook and cranny.”
He shakes his head, disagreeing. “There’s so much I don’t know.”
I stab my finger against his chest. “That’s my point exactly. Every day you uncover more. You remind me of what Elise said. We should enjoy each day like a fruit and eat it.”
He quirks an eyebrow as we stroll down a quiet street. “You think I eat Paris every day?”
“And you wake up the next day with another appetite and another.”
He wiggles an eyebrow. “That’s not the only thing I want to eat.”
“You say everything like it’s naughty.”
“Everything should be naughty. But especially when you talk of fruit and eating. You give me no choice.” We stop at the corner of the street, and he repeats what he just said in French, reminding me that he does have a choice, at least when it comes to his time and his talents. He chooses to be generous with his time. He gives of himself freely. I know he’s
