The Peach and the Poppy

by Caesar J. M. Kauftheil

  "Oh, that's actually right by my hotel. I should stop by there anyway." Poppy chewed her tongue. She couldn't remember the last time she had told such a bold-faced lie to a stranger. She wasn't even sure why she was lying.

  "I suppose we'll be travelling companions then. Shall we?" Rochelle nodded in the direction of the platforms.

  "I need to buy a ticket."

  "Don't sweat it," Rochelle said, already walking away, and Poppy quickly fell in tow. When they reached the turnstile, Rochelle swiped a card over the sensor, and gestured for Poppy to go ahead. Rochelle joined her a minute later.

  They boarded the train, which was so full there was barely room for them to stand. Though she usually disliked the claustrophobic effect of crowded public transit, the lack of space gave the excuse to stand extremely close to Rochelle—so close they were touching, arm against arm through several layers of fabric, so close she could smell the lingering fragrances of Rochelle's shampoo. This greatly outweighed the discomfort of the squeeze of surrounding people.

  They disembarked several stops later, and Poppy followed Rochelle to the train they were transferring onto. They entered a car that was less crowded than the last one, and were even able to claim a pair of seats together. The press of arms was now accompanied by the gentle rubbing of their knees as the movement of the train sent gentle sways through their bodies. Rochelle pulled an MP3 player from her pocket, disentangled the ear buds, and silently offered one to Poppy, who took it readily.

  Poppy didn't know who the artist was, or what they were singing. She could only gather that it was a French attempt at Rock music. Having grown up listening to and developing a working knowledge of nearly every significant American and English Rock band and artist from the 1960s and '70s, the music was oddly unfamiliar—though clearly derivative. She decided that she liked it. It was almost cute.

  By the time they arrived back on the city's surface, the rain had returned. Upon seeing scattered black umbrellas, Poppy immediately realized she had forgotten hers at the brasserie. Rochelle popped hers open to the side and swung it overhead.

  "Here, we can share mine until we part ways," Rochelle said, offering half of the umbrella's protection. Poppy took the excuse to spend more time near Rochelle, still entirely unsure of her plan of action. She rushed to keep up with Rochelle's quick pace, and not be left in the rain.

  "I live off this avenue. Will you be able to get to your hotel without any trouble?"

  "Yeah, it's only, like, two minutes from here."

  "Well, it was very nice talking to you, Poppy."

  "You too, Rochelle." For a moment, she was almost overwhelmed by the urge to grab Rochelle, this woman who she had been trying not to obsess over, who had been generous and charming and tactful, who had caused her to end up in an unfamiliar part of Paris for the sake of sharing an extra several minutes, and kiss her. She could almost feel her soft lips against her own, experiencing the magic of kissing in the Parisian rain. The next moment reminded her of how ridiculous an idea that was.

  But as she watched the woman walk away, Poppy found herself calling out, "Hey!" Rochelle glanced back, wearing an expression of mild surprise. Poppy took a deep breath. "So, since you're the only person in Paris I've met so far, and I'm here on my own, um, would you like to hang out sometime later this week? I mean, if you want to. No pressure."

  "Sure," Rochelle responded. "I work during the week, but maybe we can rendezvous for drinks some evening. I'll show you the nightlife."

  "Sounds great." Poppy wasn't sure if it was a casual or romantic meet-up being discussed. She wasn't even sure if Rochelle was into women—she'd like to think she got a lesbian vibe off of her, but she knew her gaydar could be experiencing the interference of wishful thinking.

  Rochelle pulled out her notebook, and opened to the page where she had written her birth name. Beneath it, she wrote out her number with a ballpoint pen, folded the paper, and handed it to Poppy who stuffed it deep into her pocket. "Send me a text when you get the chance," Rochelle said, and walked away.

  Poppy waited until Rochelle was out of sight before doubling back to the Metro station. The excitement of the maybe-date almost overrode the pain in her feet from the uncomfortable boots. Almost. By the end of the ten minute walk through the rain without an umbrella, her hair was soaked and her jeans were moist and cold, so she figured she really did need to make a trip back to the hotel after all.

  A Pun-derstanding Between Friends

  "So, you're actually gonna get some Parisian pussy, huh?" Poppy's best friend said over the phone as she sat in her hotel, drying her hair with a towel.

  "Jay, you are such a perv." And then she added with a small smile to herself, "But yeah, hopefully."

  "Well, you guys are going to go out drinking, right?" he started. "Well, just keep pouring her glasses of that fine wine, and she'll be 'Petit Syr-all' over you."

  "Was… was that a pun?" She heard Jay chuckling to himself on the other end of the line.

  "Maybe. I'm just saying, Frenchies love their wine. Put enough in front of her, and you shouldn't have any trouble 'Chardon-nailing' her."

  Poppy groaned in response. "This call is costing me money, so I don't have time for stupid puns. I'm going shopping today. What do you want me to bring back for you?"

  "Some of those French girls."

  "Uh huh. What do you really want?"

  "I don't know. Surprise me." Poppy gave an exasperated sigh. She hated how difficult he could be.

  "Fine. I have to go now. I'll talk to you later."

  "Okay, bye. Oh, oh, wait, I have another one," Jay said, giggling to himself. "You can get in her 'burg-undies.'"

  "Bye, Jay," she said, and hung up. Having changed her pants and retrieved her umbrella from the brasserie, though she had to do some pantomiming to express to the waiter what she was looking for, she headed out to make her way back to the area around the Cathedral. Hopefully, there would be a gift shop 'souve-near' the Metro station.

  Damn it! she thought. Now he has me stuck on making those damn puns.

  Faire du Shopping

  Poppy approached one of the many booths along the road, facing out toward the Seine River, filled with knickknacks and novelties. She wished she was better at gift-buying, but purchasing presents was not her forte. She picked up a refrigerator magnet with a picture of the Eiffel tower along with a small glass ashtray for her parents, who from time to time liked to indulge in the popular substance of their younger days. She picked up an iconographic "I heart Paris" sweater for her sister, and having covered the bare minimum for these people, began searching for something for her best friend.

  As she picked up a lighter with an etching of the Arc de Triomphe, she could hear Jay's sarcastic remarks in her head. "Gee, this will come in handy for all the smoking that I don't do." She put down the lighter, and picked up a postcard. "Thanks! I definitely couldn't have found THIS picture on the internet." She sighed inwardly; this would be easier if Jay weren't such an asshole.

  "This will definitely help me keep track of my keys if I ever get a car," Poppy imagined him saying as she looked through the array of key chains. Having moved to San Francisco several years ago, Jay was completely dependent on public transportation. She picked up a shot glass, and her internal voice remained silent. It was far from great, and she always thought that getting a shot glass as a souvenir was pretty dorky, but it was better than nothing.

  A Summer Scarf

  Tuesday

  It was her fourth morning, and Poppy was getting used to waking up in Paris. She rolled out of bed, and checked the window. The sun had decided to shine on the capitol's streets the day before, but the cavalier celestial body was moodily withdrawn behind the cloud cover this morning. She dressed in anticipation for the rain, which she had found herself strangely missing the day before, and made her way to the brasserie that had become her official breakfast place in Paris. She felt this was a very cultured thing to say she had, even though it was just the place clos
est to her hotel. She ordered her usual croissant, orange juice and coffee, and took a seat that was well placed for people-watching.

  She was starting to find the same satisfaction in the shot of espresso that she did from a whole mug of coffee back home, sipping at the crema without grimacing. She still added sugar, but she balanced this behavior, which seemed so uncultivated when she thought of the refined, sophisticated Rochelle taking her cup of coffee black, by extending her pinky finger as she lifted the demitasse to her lips. All she needed was a beret and a year or so of language lessons, and she'd fit right in. Disrupting her daydreaming of fitting in with the French, the server who had been working every time she had breakfasted there approached, playfully offering her the bill before she had a chance to ask for it, saying "L'addition, mademoiselle?"

  As with the day before, Poppy didn't have the sweet incident of bumping into Rochelle. Perhaps the first two days were a fluke… or maybe she just only went to that café on weekends. The name in her phone assured her that she had, truly, exchanged numbers with the woman, and she hadn't just let her imagination run away with her over the whole situation. She contemplated texting her, but Rochelle was working, actually had a schedule to keep in mind and probably did important things at night, and had promised to text Poppy when she was free. She reminded herself it had only been two days.

  She had even filled that time in between with doing things, but still felt the weight of anticipation. She had spent most of Monday making her way to and exploring the Louvre. The sheer volume of art was overwhelming, and several hours passed her by as she strolled from piece to piece, eventually reaching a plateau of her capacity to appreciate any given portrait or statue, quickly descending to near indifference by the time she reached the crowd surrounding the Mona Lisa, and her only thought was that it was smaller than she thought it would be. How awful was this? She was surrounded by significant, famous art in one of the world's greatest museums, and she felt like she had just been passing time, waiting for Rochelle to contact her.

  Leaving the brasserie, she opened her umbrella against the light sprinkle and decided to walk up the street and just keep walking until she ended up somewhere. She had grown accustomed enough to taking the Metro and had memorized where her stop was on the map, so she felt confident that wherever she ended up, she would be able to find her way home. There was a simple pleasure in the exploration, and while her boots still weren't entirely comfortable, the wanderlust was distraction enough. She turned onto unpronounceable streets that piqued her interest, sometimes trailing back when she wasn't satisfied with the path, following the impulsive instincts of an ambler.

  She wound up in a commercial area, and passed by several cosmetic shops. Even if she wanted to purchase some French makeup, she wouldn't even know what to buy, or what would make it any different from the products available in America. Rochelle seemed a bit savvier to the beautifying ingredients, Poppy thought, remembering the subtle traces of embellishment on her gorgeous face. This, along with the remarkable ability of some Asian women to seem never to age, had Poppy wondering how old Rochelle was. She looked like she could be around Poppy's age of twenty-five, but carried herself with the maturity of a woman much older.

  While she barely glanced at the display windows of the makeup shops, she did allow herself the expensive pleasure of stepping into a clothing store. There were a number of articles that looked appealing, but she didn't trust herself to buy anything too big without the stylistic appraisal of her friend, Leopold. Leopold (or Leo, as she had known him in high school before he decided that his name wasn't "gay enough") had always insisted on accompanying her on shopping trips to make sure she never purchased anything that, as he would put it, didn't "complement her presence." She eventually settled on a scarf, choosing one that she was pretty sure was in her color palette, having been reminded constantly by Leopold that she was a "Summer," though Poppy wasn't entirely sure what that meant.

  She wore the scarf out, tying it with the French knot technique Leopold had insisted on teaching her in preparation for her trip. She continued her explorative trek until her feet were starting to ache from the boots (the heels, of course, had been Leopold's suggestion) and found a brasserie to sit down in. She had been on her feet for at least two hours, and though her soles were killing her, her breakfast, as light as it was, had been substantially filling. She ordered a glass of merlot and sat, watching the human traffic outside. She smiled to herself: it was barely noon on a Tuesday, and she had nothing better to do than get happy drunk on wine.

  A+

  It was after four or five minutes of thoughtless contentment with interspersed sips of red wine that Poppy felt her phone begin to vibrate. She turned on the screen, and her lips widened as she saw Rochelle's name under an envelope icon.

  "Poppy, would you like to join me for dinner tonight? I intend to punch out sometime in the neighborhood of 3 o'clock."

  Poppy sipped her wine, hoping that forcing herself to take an extra few seconds to respond would disguise her eagerness.

  "That sounds exquisite," she began typing, and realized how obvious it was that she was trying to show off her vocabulary—and doing so poorly. She deleted the last word, and almost responded with "That sounds great!" but deleted the exclamation point before hitting send. She drained her wine a bit more quickly, and drummed her fingers on the table as she waited for Rochelle's response.

  "Wonderful. Let me know your location when the time comes, and I'll come collect you."

  "Okay," Poppy typed, and considered whether adding "Looking forward to it" would be overkill, but decided she was safe adding it in. She placed the phone down, and waited again, unsure if Rochelle would text her back again, the matter more or less concluded. Her phone, now left on the table as she pretended to ignore it, vibrated.

  "See you then. A+."

  Poppy wasn't sure what to make of the last part. Maybe it was some Frenchie way of expressing excitement or pleasure, but she didn't want to read too much into it. She checked the time—half past twelve. The waiting had been killing her already, and she knew the next two and a half hours were going to crawl by. She ordered another glass of wine.

  Un Dîner de Bonne Heure

  The rain had ceased, and Poppy found herself constantly checking the time in the later minutes of two-fifty, having promised herself that she wouldn't text Rochelle until at least five minutes after three. Excitement got the better of her after two, and she sent the name of a Metro station, the proximity of which she had been lingering around for the past half-hour. Several minutes passed, and Poppy almost wished she did smoke, so she could have a casual way to pass the excruciating slow trickle of time.

  "I'll be there soon."

  Poppy grew more excited and began preening herself, combing her hair with her fingers, smoothing out her jacket and fixing the knot in her scarf. She stood, trying to seem casual, shifting her weight from foot to foot in an attempt to alleviate the ache from her boots. She saw Rochelle rising the steps from the Metro station, and she gave a small wave.

  Rochelle strode up to her, smiling, and gave Poppy the momentarily paralyzing pleasant surprise of kissing each of her cheeks in greeting. Poppy hoped the fact that she had just melted was not as obvious as she felt it was.

  "Would you mind if we make it an early dinner?" Rochelle asked, saving Poppy the embarrassment of stuttering like an imbecile. "I worked through lunch, and I'm absolutely famished."

  "Sure," said Poppy, whose stomach was twisting around itself, food being the furthest thing from her mind. She hadn't eaten since breakfast, however, so she knew she probably should put some food in her system anyway.

  "You chose a perfect place to meet. I know a magnificent restaurant a few minutes away. Shall we?"

  "Let's," Poppy said, falling in step with Rochelle as she led the way. Through sidelong glances, she saw that Rochelle's thin scarf had been tied in a rosette, which Leopold had tried to teach her, but it looked so messy when Poppy had tried that she gav
e up. She also noticed Rochelle had applied more eye shadow than she had seen her wear before, though still only enough to be just barely noticeable, and a deep crimson accentuated her lips. Was that for work, Poppy wondered, or for her? Poppy still wasn't certain of Rochelle's sexual orientation, but at least she didn't see a ring on her finger.

  "I hope your stay hasn't made you jaded to French cuisine," Rochelle said as they turned a corner.

  "Not yet," Poppy said. She had to admit that croissants had begun to grow a bit stale the fourth day in a row, and French food in general was a bit light, but she wasn't to the point of being sick of it. "I've been afraid to try any place that looks too fancy, though. I looked at the menus of a few, and I didn't recognize most of the items."

  "That's perfect. You're in for a treat, then."

  When they arrived at the restaurant, Poppy was immediately taken by the elegance and aura of fine dining she had only experienced a handful of times in America, and that was generally during special occasions. Rochelle exchanged in French with the maître d', whom she seemed to know, judging by his smile and the relaxation of his otherwise staunch body language. He gave Rochelle a wink and beckoned them to follow him. He sat them at a table, somewhat secluded, and handed them each a one-page, double-sided menu and placed a wine list on the table. Rochelle didn't bother looking at hers, and after a few seconds of staring with a lost expression at the items, Poppy looked up to her.

  Helpfully, Rochelle began naming and explaining her suggestions from the brief menu, and Poppy bit her lip.

  "I'm a vegetarian… I'm sorry, I should have mentioned that. Do you think we'll still be able to eat here?" Poppy wanted to kick herself—whether or not this was a date, she was fucking it up.

  "Not a problem. My job necessitates that I entertain international clients from time to time, so I always try to choose accommodating restaurants. They serve a few meatless dishes, and I've found the chefs here very willing to adjust a recipe when needed." She began describing a few dishes, and Poppy, realizing how hungry she was, felt overwhelmed by the options.