Girl upset, what the fuck do I say? - Page 4

I understand your feelings. I was once like you.

Ah, to be young and in love. I remember that summer in Paris, a swaggering fool and a head flush with vigor and passions. I sat in the shadow of the Sacré-Cœur as Charles Aznavour crooned out of a nearby radio, “Dans son nouveau décor/Montmartre semble triste/Et les lilas sont mort.” Perhaps for him, Montmatre was lost, but to me it was the only place in the world. It was there, sitting outside a small café on the Place du Tertre, when I saw her first. Her hair danced and pulled in the light wind as she surveyed the square, looking for a corner to set up her easel. For 45 minutes I watched her with intense curiosity, trying to pick out every detail and guess its significance. I fell in love with her pouted lips, her sinewy, graceful musculature and her defiant, firebrand eyes. So lost was I in fantasy that I near failed to notice her starting to leave. I started to sweat and panic as my mind and heart raced towards an impossible frenzy. This was my chance, my one and only opportunity to risk my ego, risk my shame and expose my very humanity to attain my desire.

I hurried across the square, arriving at her breathless and dizzy but empowered by the liberating release of caution and care. “Hi, I’m Jack,” I breathed between my desperate suppression of panting, focusing every square inch of mental acuity contained in my brain on keeping calm and steady. “Charlotte,” she replied, smiling with an enchanting shyness as she broke eye contact and blushed. “Charlotte. That’s beautiful. Would you like to go for dinner tonight, Charlotte? I know I’m not from around here, but I know some great places and…” She tilted her head slightly and looked away. “Sorry, I cannot. I’m sorry.” I struggled for something, anything to say to make her change her mind, but instead I simply nodded and shrugged the most cowardly shrug any man has ever pathetically offered. She turned slowly on her heel with a polite smile, and we were so close the tips of her hair flew up and brushed my face to taunt me. “I don’t even know you, but know I will miss you,” I said as she moved away. She took 5 steps before stopping. Her hand shot into her carrier bag and returned with a corner of iridescent paper torn from her sketch pad. She wrote elegantly with a small nub of charcoal and handed me the small leaf with the instructions, “Don’t smudge it,” before she turned and was whisked away into the faceless crowd. I looked down at the writing. “14 rue de cléry. 8 pm. if you are sure.”

I spun around on the spot, light-headed and ecstatic. I wanted to burst with excitement. I thought of reaching out, of grabbing the nearest passing Frenchman and telling him of my wild, magnificent victory. I left the square and headed back to my hotel to change my clothes and prepare myself.

The taxi pulled up outside 14 rue de cléry at 5 minutes to 8. Thankfully, the horrendous traffic and anxiety over being late kept my mind from being too occupied with my self-doubts, my nerves and my oppressive imagination. I stepped out of the cab, tipping the driver handsomely for his deft navigation, and turned towards the cobblestone path that led to the formidable, impressive residence. I rang the doorbell twice before hearing her voice from above. She was calling out the window, “Come in, please. I will be right down.” I entered warily, and found perched on the edge of an expensive-feeling ottoman. I heard delicate footsteps approach, and I turned to greet her when a diminutive, tanned fellow appeared from behind the doorway with a camera crew in tow.

“Why don’t you take a seat over there?” He gestured towards a stool that sat beside a marble countertop bar. I stood, confused, and looked around the room for Charlotte. “Right over there. Just take a seat right over there,” he said, with more conviction in his voice. Nervous and somewhat disoriented, I complied and sat in the stool. “So what are you doing here tonight?” he prodded. “I’m – I’m here to meet someone. She – I think I may be in the wrong house…” He grinned slightly and flicked a glance at the camera before he said it. “Were you coming here to sleep with a 15 year old girl today? Because we have these images…” He pulled some pictures from behind the counter that must have been us, together in the square earlier in the day. I couldn’t be sure as my eyes had lost their ability to focus and my head swirled. I stumbled back off the stool and lurched toward the door. I had little coordination and less idea where I was headed as they called out after me. I burst through the front door and through the waiting arms of the French policeman standing guard. The cobblestone path swept along underneath my feet like a river. I lost my balance and fell to the earth. That’s when the dogs came. I looked up at the gorgeous Paris night sky as the Rottweiler sunk his teeth into my ankle, and I felt the tendon snap. Fucking Montmarte.