It was my first true love and my second love nearly demolished it.
In the youth hostel, it was nearly pitch black. One of the girls ensured the heavy curtains remained tightly shut by using chip clips, but I was fairly certain it was dark because the sun hadn’t risen yet. Working as much as I could for the last three years meant that I often woke up before the sun rose. I didn’t mind it. I found it was the perfect time back home in New York City—after most of the parties had ended, but before employees clogged the streets with their honking and cell phone arguments.
It was also perfect here. It was quiet, I was alone in my consciousness, and I could get to the more popular Paris destinations before they became overtaken by tourists who only came around to take their photos and post it on social media. Performative enjoyment.
I grabbed my bag, tucked beside my cot. I threw it over my shoulder as I stepped carefully over various possessions between the cots. The cots were only a couple of feet away from each other, which meant that the night had been filled with snoring, rustling sheets, and a suspicious amount of creaking.
I opened the front door wide enough that I could slip out. As soon as I was outside, I breathed in the Paris air, which felt cleaner than NYC air. The hostel was on a hill, and from the front of it, I could see a cobblestone street filled with old stone buildings. It gave off an atmosphere of pleasant nostalgia.
Paris. The City of Lights. La Ville Lumière
As I turned to head down to the street, a hand gripped my shoulder. I spun around, my fist coming around faster than my head. I hit the attacker with as much force as I could, pulling my fist back to hit him again.
My parents had warned me about men seeing an American woman and trying to take advantage of her disorientation. I’d dismissed their concerns like any other eighteen-year-old, but the universe conspired to prove me wrong.
“Hey!” the man yelled as I hit him again. “You have my bag!”
“Back off!” I yelled back. “I have a black belt.”
I did not have a black belt. I still don’t.
As I raised my arm to hit him again, he rushed at me, grabbing me around the waist and pushing me against the wall of the hostel. It wasn’t painful, but as his hands pinned my arms down, my heart rioted in my chest. I stared straight at him, trying to be brave.
His eyes reminded me of a photo of Mount Blanc’s summit, where the mountains took on a dangerously icy blue tint.
He was so beautiful that, in retrospect, I should have been more terrified of his charm than any murder plot. He had a face that looked like it’d been molded out of clay by someone who loved him— permanently messy hair, and a tug at his lips like he was always about to smile. He had broad shoulders with the body of a marathoner, but he didn’t carry himself like he was ready to pose for a photoshoot or to be worshipped. He looked like he was ready to hike and go to college at the same time with his jeans, black hiking boots, and a white t-shirt with an erratic design on it. He was the type who would look good in anything, but his clothes perfectly fit together. He had an eye for colors and materials, which I could appreciate as much as his body.
He looked at me with equal appreciation, his eyes sweeping up and down my body and lingering at my mouth, my clavicle, and the curve of my ass, which was new and unexpectedly seductive.
I blinked as his words sunk in. When I had spun around, my left hand gripped the backpack’s strap. In my periphery, it looked like my bag, but it was a simple black hiking backpack. As I stared at him, it struck me that the bag did feel a bit heavier than it used to.
“Just check it. There’s a stunningly ugly orange carabiner hooked onto it.”
“Why would you put an ugly carabiner on it?” I asked.
“It made it easier to identify quickly and I had hoped it’d deter people from stealing it.” He gestured toward me. “After this, I’m reconsidering the pink backpack I’d passed by.”
My cheeks burned. I quickly whipped the bag off my shoulder and put it between us in case he decided to come charging at me with a knife. The orange carabiner was hooked onto one of the zippers. The color was repellant.
“I am so sorry.” I held the bag up for him. Seeing his smile was worth the whole exchange. Of course, he had dimples.
“Do you promise me you’re not going to try to hit me again?” he asked, not taking the bag.
“I promise,” I said. “I’m not a complete psychopath. Just a little paranoid. A lot paranoid.”
“Paranoia is good when you’re alone,” he said, taking the backpack. He slung it over his shoulder and took a step back from me, rubbing his face where I’d hit him. I hadn’t thought I’d hit him that hard, but I could see a faint red imprint on his skin.
“I’m so sorry,” I said again. “I could go to the store and buy you some ice. Maybe some ibuprofen too.”
“Nah,” he said. “However, I wouldn’t mind some breakfast. If you join me, I’ll pay for us.”
“I—” I rubbed my arm.
“I’m not going to tell you that you owe me,” he interjected. “But you stole my bag and attacked me. It’s just something to keep in mind.”
He turned away from me, heading down the same route I had been ready to go down.
His body pinning me against the wall flickered in my mind. His body heat. The pressure against my body. My heart ricocheting in my chest. The sense of unfamiliar intimacy and how strangely alluring that contradiction was. I was in Paris to go through a metamorphosis that would turn me into a force to be reckoned with. He seemed like a man who could transform a woman. I took an involuntary step forward. Then, a voluntary step.
