He smiles at me. “Actually, yes. To my best friend, Fiora. We don’t live together, and we’re not together; she has a girlfriend, but the French authorities seem to think that is perfectly reasonable.”
“Yes, I heard that about the French.”
“Does that freak you out?”
Up until then, I realized, there hadn’t been a particularly romantic vibe. Because of the paper, I assumed there was, but in fact, had I not known, I’d have thought we were two coworkers out for friendly after-hours drinks.
“I don’t know why it should,” I said.
Martin nodded. “Have you ever been to Paris before?”
I shook my head. “I’ve never even been to Europe before.”
He chuckled. “How much do you value sleep?” he asked.
“Pennies on the dollar.”
“Excellent answer.”
Over the course of one weekend, Martin took me everywhere. All the obvious places—the top of the Eiffel Tower and Notre-Dame, and Montparnasse to eat at a café and watch what all those artists in the 1920s found so inspiring. We explored the Gothic cathedral of Basilica Saint-Denis, and walked along the Seine until the sole of my sneaker gave up and detached from my shoe.
“I’ll carry you,” Martin told me, slinging me onto his back. We made it a minute before flagging down a cab while laughing hysterically at my flapping footwear.
The sex was not awe-inspiring, but it did not need to be. It was good, and I was happy to have it, happy to have this experience, skin on skin, in this city of all cities.
I had, in the past, often found sex to be dissociative, like I became someone else, or just departed the premises when my clothes came off. It wasn’t that I didn’t enjoy it, it was that I enjoyed myself enjoying it more. It was like I was watching myself from a distance—the sexy part was the fact that it was happening—sex!In Paris!—not always the actual physical act, the sensation, the hum and thump of two human bodies. I liked the narrative, the story I was going to tell—was already telling—about what was happening.
Afterward we shared a cigarette on his balcony. Martin lived on the fringes of the seventeenth, with views of Montmartre. I was wearing his shirt—blue, emblazed withDODGERSin white.
“Do you ever miss America?” I asked him.
He stopped and inhaled. He was wearing sweatpants and a plain white Hanes T-shirt. I wondered if he’d purchased a single clothing item in the last six years, or if everything he owned in Paris was a hand-me-down from another life.
“Sometimes,” he said. “Like if I want to go to a diner on a Sunday or just watch football or something. Maybe sometimes I miss how efficient things are in the US. Like how doors work both ways.”
I gave him a look.
“It’s ridiculous to have a set of doors that only go inward and a set of doors that only go outward,” he said. He demonstrated with his hands. “I do not know why it’s the standard here.”
“That’s it?”
Martin exhaled. I smelled the smoke. It felt fresh and new and heady.
“No, I miss a lot. But none of it is going anywhere. I’ll be back someday, and the doors will still go both ways.”
He smiled. I didn’t say anything, and he continued.
“I hope I find someone like you there when I do. You make everything feel good, Daphne. Really good.”
He walked toward me and put his hands around my waist.He leaned down, and I kissed him softly, then felt his head settle on my shoulder. I looked at his studio, the mess of sheets, our Indian takeout containers—red and green curry, mango chutney, a brochure from Musée d’Orsay. How much had occurred in just three days’ time.
“I’ll miss you,” I said, and meant it.
I felt his homesickness—or was it mine—pulsing through both of us like a heartbeat, and I knew I would miss that, too. The particular feeling of being twentysomething and lost in Paris, together.
Chapter Nine
Jake calls me the next day. Murphy is sitting upright by the coffee table, looking at the muted television as if he’s willing the station to change. Fair enough,House Huntersis on.
