“Nana,” I interrupt, too drained to argue again—especially given that there’s no point. I’m here for Christmas and then traveling south. To Italy next. Then, who knows? Maybe Greece. I only spent a couple weeks in the Cyclades last time.
This is what I do. I travel. I work. I stay with friends or rent cheap digs and then move on when my visa expires or whoever I’m crashing with gets sick of me. So, when Solène, my exchange student friend from back in high school, offered up her Paris apartment for three months in exchange for utilities and some plant watering, I jumped at the chance. Who wouldn’t, right?
Of every place I’ve been since I took off at eighteen—and there have been many—Paris is my favorite. I feel alive here, like every time I step outside, there’s an adventure waiting. But also weirdly at home? It’s not just the city, either. My job—a fluke, last minute replacement—has me happy to get up in the morning. Sure, it’s all paid under the table, which sometimes makes me feel in some ways like I don’t really exist. But this apartment is bliss. I love it, with its brightly colored walls, its cozy furnishings, the huge windows and tiny balcony overlooking the sweetest, most picturesque pedestrian square, and beyond it, rooftops upon rooftops.
I just wish…
“I know, baby.” Nana lets out a theatrical sigh. “You’ll rest when you’re dead.”
My life motto. The rules I’ve lived by for almost ten years now. “Exactly,” I say, not sounding nearly as cheery as I’d like. “Can’t stop, won’t stop,” I add, just to make sure she buys it. Even if it’s starting to sound old, even to me.
“Aren’t you off to Italy soon?”
“Yes!” I smile wide, overcompensating for the hollow feeling inside. “You know how it is!”
“I do.” She inspects me with sharp eyes, the sound of merriment around her somehow highlighting how quiet my own Christmas Eve is. Nana knows how much I hate silence. “Paris seems to suit you, though. Don’t you want to try to get that visa thing and stay?”
I wish. I really do. But at the same time, the idea scares me. Staying still scares me.
“I’m gonna go, okay?” I swallow back a sudden wave of panic.
“What for?” She accepts my change of subject, though I can see how badly she wants to press. “You got some hot guy waiting in the wings?”
Yeah, right. I snort, my brain going straight to Le Jerk and his specific brand of annoying, angry hotness.
“I’m tired. I told you, we’ve been slammed at the shop and I’ve got to pack up and leave. I need to sleep.” And finish this bottle of wine. And maybe bake something, because why the hell not? I haven’t made eggnog yet this year. Oh, and maybe I’ll put on high heels and dance, since mean old neighbor’s not around. Although I’d maybe dance even if he were here, just to see what he’d do. To get him riled up, maybe send him running up here in nothing but boxers this time. Which, of course, makes me wonder, not for the first time, if he even wears them.
Darn it. Here I go again. Ihatehow often I think about that pants comment he made my first day here. Pants, I’d forgotten, refers to underwear in the UK, which insinuates the guy goes around commando. Since that first meeting—and literally every time I’ve seen him these past three months—that no pants comment’s been hanging above my head like a big, perverted question mark.
After we say our goodbyes, I end the call and, before the silence can settle in, head to the ornate wooden wardrobe that serves as my closet and pull out the sparkly rose gold slingbacks I bought the other day in a little vintage clothing shop down the street. They’re impractical and ridiculous and they sort of cut off the circulation to my toes, but I don’t care. I love everything about them, from the delicate spike heel to the sweet little bows at the tips. They’re party shoes. Dancing shoes. Get your butt out there and shake it shoes.
Refilling my wine, I slip them on and walk the tiny living room floor up and back, up and back, with that perverse little rush I get whenever I even think about him down there.
I slurp more wine, letting it warm me to my scrunched-up toes, and head over to the minuscule kitchen area, wondering if he’s at home down there and if so, what he’s doing and if he’ll—
I open the fridge, get hit by the stink of the century, and gag.
Ew, oh myGod. Argh. Whatisthat smell?
I reach blindly for a dish towel, press it to my face, and search through the cold food remnants until I unearth a soft cheese I bought a while back and promptly forgot all about. Now, it’s turned into a flat brown, crusty puddle in the crisper.
I almost vomit about twelve times while cleaning the nasty thing up, then get it into the trash, which I double bag and tie off in hopes that it’ll keep until morning.
Not happening, though. No matter how many bags I put this thing in, it stinks to high heaven. I’ll suffocate if I leave it here overnight. Death by cheese.
Ugh. Okay. Fine. I’ll take it down.
I slug back the last of my glass, feeling a little buzzed as I head to the door, still in my gorgeous heels, but you know what? Why not?
Everyone’s left the building for the holidays. Hell, half the population’s probably left Paris. I might as well enjoy the shoes, if only for myself.
So, buzzed and half-dressed, wobbling on my impractical dream shoes, I leave my overheated apartment, keys in my pocket and crusty old cheese bag hanging on the tip of my outstretched fingers, held as far in front of me as possible.
It feels like a Christmas miracle when I push the button and the elevator actually comes. I get in and push the RdC button for the ground floor and then waste what feels like a year of my life while it chugs its way down. It’s not until the elevator does its weird third floor grind and lurch that it hits me just how cold it’s gotten.
Earlier, I’d complained about the sad, warm drizzle and how I missed real cold weather. Suddenly, the building’s an ice tunnel. And here I am in pajama shorts and a tank top, with nothing but a thin velour hoodie thrown over it, when what I need is one of those goose down parkas they give you when you move to Antarctica. Holy crap, it’scold.
As the elevator settles, I’d love to rush out, but I know better with this finicky little monster. Shivering now, I wait for it to finish making that slow, mechanical noise it lets out as it finally comes to a full stop, and then drag open the accordion doors, turn the handle and push the iron and glass outer door. In the half dark, I race back to the little trash area in the open-air courtyard, throw the bag into a can and shut the lid.
