“Hm.” I imitate his smile. “And the other guy?”
“Javert.”
“Hm.” I repeat and nod like this is some deep discussion. “That’s quite an accent you have.”
I swear his eyes twinkle. “Merci.”
I raise my brows. “Impressive. What else you got?”
He leans over the arm of his chair, his smile sweet as pie. “Eh bien, c'est un très gros pénis que vous avez là-bas.”
“What does that mean?”
“Why, that’s a very large cock you have there.”
I laugh. “So, all the dirty stuff, huh? What else?”
He hesitates for a second, nibbles on his bottom lip. Then he scoots closer to me, lays his fingers on my arm. His voice is almost too soft to hear above the fire. “Votre sourire est comme le soleil le plus brillant et vos yeux le ciel le plus bleu.”
It’s probably how soft his voice is. Could be the way he’s looking at me too. Whatever it is, it’s like something inside me tips over and breaks. It spills, widening and soaking, and there’s no stopping it. There are not enough towels in the world. Not enough mops and not enough room inside me to hold it, and so I feel my eyes sting, because it’s going to leak out of me like a faucet.
I blink it back, turn my head from him, and pull my pack of smokes out of my rolled sleeve. “Man, those French ladies, always showing their tits in the movies, you know?” I give out a harsh laugh. “And the fellas all slicked back and with their berets and shit. Man, what a drag.”
I hear his chair creak and see him push up his glasses in my periphery.
“My mom took me to France,” he says. “When I was little.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“I don’t really remember it. It was after the war. The Queen was there and some of the streets were all busted up real bad still. I got to see the Eiffel Tower, though.”
“It’s just a giant prick.” I look over at him, his expression unsure, and I force another laugh. “I read it in this girly magazine once. They said it about the Washington Monument too.”
“Oh. I see.”
We grow quiet for a few minutes. I smoke my cig, drink my beer, and try not to let anything else spill out.
“Have you been here before?” Paul asks.
I shake my head. “He told me all about it. Just never made it out here.”
Paul looks around. “And he wants to sell it?”
I nod and he nods too. Then he looks at me, his eyes burning like a green fire behind his glasses. I want to ignore him. I think maybe this was a mistake. And I think maybe I want to hear him speak dirty French words all day until the day I die.
He lays a pensive hand on my thigh. “You want to know what it means?”
Do I want to know? Because I think I already do. In the way that two people together always know, always see, and always want. It’s a mystery, isn’t it? And I could have left it that way, a mystery between us for all time. The kid in the shrub, and I’d just be the fella on the balcony and nothing more. Nothing to anyone. It’s a familiar place for me, the comfort of ambiguity.
I finish my cigarette and toss it in the fire. I finish my beer and set the bottle beside me. I lean over to him and search his face, so earnest and so hopeful, and a fool to waste such beautiful words on me.
I lean over and kiss his neck, right under his earlobe. I nip at the skin with my teeth and he shivers. I kiss down lower and bite down harder at the slope of his shoulder. He groans and I bite him again. I take his earlobe in my teeth and tug, nip at the smooth line of his jaw, and when I put my hand over his crotch, I’m pleased I’ve got him so hard that he’s forgotten.
And I know he won’t ask me again.
I’m not sure what time it is when I put out the fire, but it feels late.
We go inside, and we roll down the mattress, find some linens in a cabinet, and make the bed. I wonder how we’re going to do this. I don’t do sleepovers. It’s always been I leave or the other guy leaves. We use each other, and it’s always been just enough to scratch that itch. But this is different. We’re alone. He can’t just mosey on back to his aunt’s. I asked him the other night. There’s an expectation now.
