As I watch him walk the other way, looking back at me once with such heat in his eyes that I’m sure he’s waging the same internal battle I am, I know that this is the scent I want to bottle. I want to remember this day. I want to open the top of the perfume, close my eyes, let the scent drift into my mind, and remember what it feels like to fall in love.
But more than that, I want to remember what it feels like to fall in love and no longer have the will to stop it, to throw all the reasons out the window and let it happen, come what may.
18
Griffin
The days unfold like this. At dawn I run, then I help Joy at work in the morning. In the afternoon, I focus on written translations. In the early evening, I meet her, and we walk and we talk. I make her tell me about her day, and I ask her questions. As we wander through St. Germain des Pres, over the Pont Neuf, and along the Seine, stopping for a chocolate éclair, a café noisette, or a glass of wine, she makes strides, each day sounding better, gaining confidence. We stroll through the markets, we dart into shops, and we meander past the bouquinistes, where one day Joy chats with Julien, finding the words to buy a dozen sepia-tinted postcards of Paris.
“You’ve never brought a woman by before,” Julien remarks to me, his voice low, his words so quick I’m sure she won’t understand.
“Ah, that must mean I really like you,” I tease.
He grunts. “It means you like her.”
I wave a hand dismissively. “It means you have good postcards, mate.”
He grumbles a thank you then hands the cards to Joy.
As we pass other stalls peddling old books, vintage posters, and Life magazines from decades ago, Joy asks what we talked about. “I heard the word like,” she says, an inquisitive note to her voice.
“Good ears. He said you really liked his postcards,” I say with a smirk.
“I think you’re lying.”
“What do you think he asked me, then?”
“Something else,” she says.
“Something like what?”
“Something you don’t want to tell me.”
But I do want to tell her. “He thinks I like you.”
“Oh yeah?”
I nod. “Crazy old man.”
“Insane, clearly.”
“Absolutely batty.” I point to the pack of cards in her hand. “What are you going to do with those?”
“I’ll send them to my sister.”
“In the post?”
She laughs. “No. I’ll do it the modern way. By snapping cell phone photos and sending them immediately. Instant gratification.”
“Gratification instantanée.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Maybe you should teach me how to say delayed gratification, too.”
That’s what I’m living every day. But then, delayed means the gratification with her will eventually come. I have no idea if it’ll always be out of reach.
We take lunch together on a Wednesday, and after we finish, we turn a corner onto a narrow cobblestoned street as the sky rumbles.
She gasps. “I’ve been waiting for it to rain.”
“It’s rained a few times in the two months we’ve worked together.”
She shakes her head. “Not enough. I want the rain that makes me scurry under an awning. I want the rain that filmmakers can only wish for.”
I arch a brow. “What’s that?”
“Rain that drenches the streets. That makes them look like jewels.”
Images of wet, sparkling roads unfurl before my eyes. “That’s what filmmakers want?”
“They often hire crews to spray water on streets. Because the best shot in all of film is a street after a rain. It sparkles. I want that kind of rain.”
“Do you really want that kind of rain, or do you just want the aftereffects?”
“I’ll take the rain to get the diamonds,” she says, then reaches into her bag and fishes around for something. She extracts an umbrella, a tiny little thing. But when she opens it, it wilts. The spokes don’t work.
“Merde,” she says, and I laugh.
“Such a good student.”
“My umbrella is broken,” she says in French.
“Even better.”
“No. What’s even better is shopping.” She points to a store down the street where the window displays an umbrella with black and white polka dots. It’s like a homing beacon for Joy, and she marches to the shop through the drizzle. She pushes on the door, and I follow her inside.
But she stops in her tracks and brings her hand to her mouth.
“The polka-dot one? The price is bonkers, right?”
She shakes her head and speaks in a reverent whisper. “No. Look.” A ruby-red umbrella is perched in a metal stand, its carved wooden handle poking out the top. Running a hand lovingly along the fabric, Joy looks as if she’s stroking a cat. “I’ll take it.”
She grabs the umbrella, heads to the counter, and buys the new one, disposing of the old.
When we step outside, big thick drops fall from the sky, and Joy opens the jewel-colored umbrella. She twirls it above her head, smiling under the cherry-red canopy she’s given herself. “Join me under my umbrella?”
I don’t know how she does it, but she makes everything sound like an invitation to travel to the place I most want to be right now. I take the umbrella in one hand, hold it above us, and wrap the other one around her shoulder.
She loops her arm around my waist, and we walk in the rain. She’s not due back at the office for twenty minutes, and she makes no move in that direction.
She looks at me, her expression serious. “What else is on the bucket list?”
I tense as the second item blasts like a neon sign in the night. Sleep with all the French girls. I don’t want to get into that one. “A number of things.”
I squeeze her shoulder, hoping a bit of contact will deflect her interest. But she’s no cat, distracted by a laser pointer. She’s a brilliant woman, hungry to know the truth.
“Evasive much?” she says.
“I’m not evasive.”
“Is it private? Is it a secret? It’s
