“Your expression makes no sense by the way, why would pie be single?” he continued.
“That’s me. I get my aphorisms mixed up. Or is it cliches? Sayings. I get my sayings mixed up.”
He grinned. “The copywriter in me is dying over here.”
“Single as a pringle!” She called out, giving the correct expression.
He fake-groaned. “That’s awful.”
“Not my fault if you like pie better than Pringles,” she tossed back.
Phoenix’s tone stayed nonchalant as he steered back to their earlier conversation. “So, who would your ideal be, if you had to pick someone for a lifetime?” He asked as if they were discussing what brand shampoo the hotel carried.
She thought about this as they sauntered past benches and weathered trees, and wondered why he was asking. A loaded question, to be sure. “Intelligence is a must-have, otherwise the conversations fall short. Funny is nice. And kind. He has to be a good person. Most important is that our values match. Like… I’m big on social justice.”
“And sustainability.”
“Right. You?”
“Well, I dunno if it’s recency bias, but as you were talking, I was like, yup, me too.”
“Okay, so if you find a funny, smart, nice activist, let me know,” she summarized.
“Same here,” he agreed with a chuckle.
Her heart felt buoyed, full of unfounded optimism.
They reached the street and descended the steps into the metro station. There was a crowd there, everyone awaiting the huge elevator that would take them down to the train.
“Do you know how to get to the catacombs?” she asked.
This time, his groan sounded genuine. “The Catacombs are morbid. The French moved remains from cemeteries there. We can go anywhere else in Paris. Back to the underground market. Arc de Triomphe, the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower. ”
“Fine. Let’s do those things. First, we’ll go there, then you can choose the next thing.”
They took the train to the Metro Pasteur, then waited for the train leading to the catacombs.
“This one’s ours,” he said, as the train slowed to a stop.
He waited for her to board first. She slid onto a bench and he sat beside her, warming her arm where they touched, and lighting a different kind of warmth somewhere deep inside.
“Are you having fun?” she asked.
“We’re in Paris for the weekend, heading to Cannes tomorrow. It’s just awful. No fun at all.”
She elbowed him in the ribs. “Ugly American,” she teased.
“Hideous,” he agreed.
An idea suddenly surged through her. She could spend the rest of her days with this man.
Her fingers pulled out their brochure. The front photo showed a cavern, its limestone walls and columns lit to a caramel yellow. “Cemetery, huh? That does sound dark,” she said.
His mouth compressed. “Orchid, they moved six million bodies into this underground space hundreds of years ago. Into an old storm drain. It’s pretty gruesome.”
She saw his expression. “You’re worried about me,” she deduced.
“This place isn’t getting five-star reviews from people who don’t like medical stuff,” he said lightly. “Or dead bodies.”
