Two Americans in Paris (4 page)

“I’m a mind guy,” you say.

“Really?” I ask.

“Yeah, I’m attracted to intelligence. And a girl who can eat. I like a girl who can eat.”

If what you say is true, I am your soulmate. Not only do I love to eat, but I have a sharp intellect on par with yours. I keep the conversation about sex. I intend to make it clear to you that I am sexually open-minded. “Relationships don’t really serve a purpose anymore. Women are perfectly fine on their own. We don’t need men to take care of us. But sex—that serves a purpose.”

“There have been a lot of studies coming out recently that say that humans weren’t meant to be monogamous,” you say.

“No, of course not!” My mind jumps to one of the potential results of sex. “I think babies are ugly. They’re almost hairless, like tiny aliens. They only get cute when they’re toddlers. That perfect skin, angelic hair. Big, doleful eyes.”

“I just want a little daughter,” you say. “I want to name her Amelia, or Delia. I think the relationship between father and daughter from age three to eight is one of the most beautiful things in the world,” you say, your voice filled with the tenderest longing for a daughter of your own. “I don’t think it’s the same between mother and son.”

“No, I don’t think it is,” I agree, although part of me hopes what you say is not true. I look down at my fingers. “You know, I don’t want an engagement ring. I think they’re ugly. I would wear a wedding band, though.”

“But some of them are really pretty!” Lady insists.

“I hate them. I think they’re . . . feminist.” I am a little drunk and couldn’t think of the word “sexist,” but you get the idea. “Men don’t have to wear one. But they have to wear wedding bands. And there’s that whole thing where you’re supposed to spend two month’s salary on one.”

My mind has taken on a warm, pleasant buzz from the gin and tonic, and the white wall behind Lady has turned a soft, fuzzy gray. Dusk is setting in, draping dark shadows over our bodies. From the open window we can see the marigold glimmer of La Tour Eiffel rearing up over the cityscape.

On the wall behind Lady I spot a quivering, winged insect. “I think there’s a mosquito in here.”

“Ah! Where? Kill it!” Lady exclaims, slapping a book against the wall. She shuts the window, sealing us in the humid warmth of her room.

“I think it’s gone,” I say.

“Good!”

Lady’s cheeks have deepened to a rosy pink from the alcohol. She sits with her knees propped in front of her, revealing her white underwear beneath her white miniskirt when she moves. She looks alluring and I’m not the first to notice.

Perhaps I should be concerned that you find Lady attractive. She’s prettier than me, but on further consideration I decide not to worry about your attraction to her. You aren’t her type at all. She prefers guys dressed in suits who are a bit pompous and come from a wealthy family with an upstanding reputation. You’ll find in time that she isn’t what you really want. I am. I know I sound overconfident, but I feel certain that I am the finest match for you of anyone you will meet here.

I decide we have expressed our general views on sex and relationships sufficiently, so it’s a good time to reveal something more specific about my sexuality I know you will enjoy hearing. “You know, I’m convinced every Comp. Lit. student at AUP is bisexual.” I watch you to gauge your response. Ripples of recognition run down your face—you have not forgotten that I am a Comp. Lit student. You focus your gaze on me, smiling with a lascivious gleam in your eyes. My gaze meets yours and I smile back, enjoying the exquisitely lecherous thoughts coursing through my mind and, I presume, also yours.

Lady doesn’t appear to realize I’ve alluded to being bisexual. If she does realize it, she doesn’t acknowledge it. “I think all girls are bisexual,” she says. “I’ve made out with girls, but for guys, because they like it. I don’t think I could
do it
.”

“But then, it’s just for a guy and you do it for their pleasure, because they like it,” you say.

“Yeah,” she says.

“Kids here are sexually active really early,” I say. “In some areas the average age they lose their virginity is twelve.”

“That is early,” you agree.

“Yeah, they’re out there on the street, barely pubescent, doing stuff you normally see eighteen-year olds doing, mackin’ on each other, thinking they’re all grown up,” I say.

“My first time was when I was sixteen,” you say. “My dad walked in on us, and he walked back out and closed the door and knocked. I was like ‘
Dad
.’”

I picture your firm white rump pulsing atop your tiny teen girlfriend and your irritation at being interrupted, “
Dad”
gritted through your teeth. “Yeah, that’s pretty normal. I was eighteen when I lost mine.”

“That’s a little on the older side,” you say.

“It is,” I agree.

“I was seventeen,” Lady says. She pauses and then says something I never thought I’d hear her say. “I’ve never had an orgasm.”

“What,
seriously
? Never?” I ask, flabbergasted.

She shakes her head, “Never.”

“How old are you?” you ask her.

“Twenty-seven,” she says.

“You might want to work on that. It’s one of those life experiences you don’t want to miss out on,” you advise.

“By the end of the summer, we’ll get you an orgasm!” I tell Lady, raising my arm toward her for emphasis. “We’ll go to Pigalle and get you a . . .” I glance at you, thinking it would be tacky to reveal the contents of my sex-toy drawer to you so soon after having met you. I mouth to Lady “a rabbit.” “I know what to get. It’s one of my summer goals, we’ll get you an orgasm!”

“It’s a plan!” she says, all for it.

“That’s a weird goal to have,” you say.

“Maybe,” I shrug.

I finish my gin tonic and excuse myself to use the bathroom. The excitement of your company wares off for a moment and I realize I’m not feeling well. My system is flooded with stress hormones and adrenaline, which has the side effect of giving me an upset stomach. I put my hand over my queasy abdomen and think of my slightly embarrassing place of peace, a field of tall green grass with a single unicorn. The image calms me, but I’m not sure I’ll make it through the evening.

I return to Lady’s bed and put on an overall pleasant humor, not wanting anyone—especially you—to suspect there is anything wrong.

Lady studies the map, attempting to find a McDo near where bands will be playing. “I know there’s a McDo right by Parmentier, just a stop away from République, which is where a lot of the music is going on.”

“You know Paris by where McDonalds is?” I tease.

“Yes! Who cares about music? We want cheeseburgers! When you drink, you either have sex or eat,” she says.

We pick up our bags and slip on our shoes, preparing to leave.

Lady and Raven take the tiny elevator, filled to capacity by their slender bodies, leaving us to take the stairs.

“I’m glad I came. Thank you for inviting me,” you say. “It’s so nice to just have drinks and intelligent conversation.”

“Yes, I know, isn’t it? We talked a lot about sex,” I point out.

“Ha, yeah, that was great.”

You grab the stair railing and start down the navy velvet steps. I follow behind you.

Without precedent you incline your head toward me and ask, “When is your birthday?”

“September sixteenth.”

“Ah, my mother’s birthday is September fourteenth. You’re in good company!”

“I’m sure I am.”

We gather outside Lady’s building. Raven explains she must leave us. Her aunt is visiting and it would be seen as impolite for her to return too late. We say goodbye to her and she strides away down the sidewalk.

On the métro we sit on the fuzzy seats, I by Lady and you on my left with an aisle between us.

I discreetly whisper into Lady’s pink-rimmed ear, “I have an upset stomach. I’m too overexcited, I think.”

“Awe, are you going to be ok?” she whispers back, her cheeks a flush of scarlet.

“Yes, I think so. We’ll see.”

I look over at you, so glad to have you with me, but disappointed that the physical discomfort I am experiencing is putting a damper on the evening, at least for me.

We emerge from the métro at Parmentier. Hipster youths sing along to AC/DC and Led Zeppelin songs pulsing from woofers outside a café. Paris is booming with an excitement and energy diametrically opposed to the typical nighttime peacefulness.

Directly ahead of us McDonald’s artificial light glows like a beacon. “McDo really is right there!” I exclaim.     

We each order Big Macs with fries. I take unusually small bites of my burger. Although I normally eat like there is a monster in my stomach that needs to be fed, I have little appetite.

“So what will you two be up to after AUP?” you ask. This summer is your last semester, right?”

“I’ll be going to grad school at Emerson to study publishing and writing,” I say.

“Where is Emerson?” you ask.

“Boston. But I have a really good friend in NYC who I visit pretty often.”

Lady nods and swallows a bite of her burger. “I’ll be at LSE, the London School of Economics, this fall. I’m studying European law.”

“Cool. Sounds like you’ve got it figured out. You don’t want to travel a bit or work right after undergrad?” You raise your eyebrow inquisitively.

Lady perks up as if she’s remembered something. “I’m also applying to do Roots and Shoots, Jane Goodall’s organization, in Tanzania this Fall. If they accept me, I’ll go to LSE next year.”

“You’ll get into Roots and Shoots, for sure,” I say. “I can’t really afford to travel or work, though I’d like to. Before I could get a publishing job, I need some more internship experience, and you have to do them for free. My parents can’t help support me while I do internships, so I have to borrow money for grad school to support myself while I do internships. It’s not ideal. It’s just how it is.”

You nod and finish off the last of your fries. I excuse myself to use the bathroom before we leave and realize my stomach feels worse, not better. While I wash my hands, I silently argue with myself about whether it would be better to go home or stay and try to enjoy Fête de la Musique. Although the thought of dancing the night way around the city with you is enticing, I decide my personal health is more important.

I meet you and Lady outside. The breeze is refreshing and classic rock music is thumping nearby. We cross the street on our way to République, but I stop you outside the métro. “You guys can go, but I decided that I’m going to go home.”

“Oh no, really? No, no we will cure you first. We’ll find a Pharmacie,” Lady insists.

“No, painkillers don’t really help this,” I say. “I just need some tea and to rest.”

“You’re not feeling well?” you ask. I nod. “I’ll bring you home, if you want me to,” you say.

“No, that’s okay, I’ll be alright. It’s very nice of you to offer, though.”

“You know, I’ll just go home too then,” Lady says.

“Oh, you don’t have to do that! Stay, enjoy Fête de la Musique.”

“Actually, I’m going to meet up with some friends, so I’ll just join you on the metro,” you say.

We descend into the métro and hang onto the silver poles on the train.

I study the métro map, determining where each of us will switch lines. “So you get off at Réamur-Sebastopol, I get off at like Opéra, and Lady gets off at Havre-Caumartin,” I say.

“You mean you get off
at
Opéra?” you say.

“Yeah.” No one has ever had the audacity to correct my language. Normally I am the one correcting my friend’s grammar. Your assumption of this role simultaneously irritates me and endears you to me.

“It’s so nice just to drink and have good conversation.” You tilt your head back in rhapsody. “Don’t think at all that you ruined my night. It was great.”

The train jostles and your arm brushes against mine, sending aphrodisiacal tingles through my system.

“It was my pleasure.” I am so glad you enjoyed this evening, as I hoped you would, but I am offended you would suggest I may have been concerned I ruined your evening. However, my feelings for you are already unnaturally strong and override my otherwise good senses, causing me to write-off your lack of tact as mere immaturity.

“Most guys my age just want to get drunk and fuck bitches,” you say. My shocked reaction to your blunt honesty shows on my face. You notice. “Excuse my language.”

“No, I totally get it,” I say.

“So, I’m supposed to go get my roommate and bring him out, but I’m going to leave him at home,” you say. “There are some girls at Saint-Denis I’m going to meet up with.”

I wish you a fun time and we say goodbye. As soon as I am sure you are out of earshot I turn to Lady to talk about you. “See? He’s choosing to go hang out with
girls
. He behaves like he’s single.”

“Yeah, he does. He’s nice, but I can’t believe he brought a half-drunk bottle of beer. And nothing to share!”