The Peach and the Poppy

by Caesar J. M. Kauftheil

  "Do you happen to have a marker on you?" Rochelle asked.

  "I don't think so," Poppy said.

  Rochelle purchased a small bronze padlock and a permanent marker from one of the stalls, and led Poppy onward.

  "What was that for?" Poppy asked.

  "You'll see," Rochelle said, immediately guiding Poppy onto a bridge. What at first seemed like a patternless, multicolored design along the sides of the bridge turned out to be an innumerable mass of locks of different sizes and styles hooked to the chain link barriers. As they passed, Poppy noted that nearly every one of them was marked with pairs of letters or names, similar to the ways couples carved their names into trees in movies.

  Rochelle continued forward, selectively studying the masses of metal on either side, so dense in some places that the chain link had bent under the weight and even broken off, dangling over the water below. When they had walked more than halfway, Rochelle suddenly stopped.

  "Here. What do you think?"

  "Where, exactly?" Poppy asked, as if this were a matter of serious consideration.

  "Down there, where it's more sparse," she said, pointing. Poppy stroked her chin in mock contemplation as Rochelle gazed at her expectantly.

  "Yes. What is this, anyway?"

  "This is the Pont des Arts. Couples come and place locks on this bridge to symbolize their lasting love," Rochelle said, taking out the pen to mark the copper-colored surface of the lock. "I figured a romantic soul such as yourself might enjoy seeing it." When she finished writing, she showed it to Poppy. There was an 'R' and a 'P' beside each other, and centered beneath the two letters was an 'S'.

  "What does it mean," Poppy asked, looking up.

  "Rochelle and Poppy," Rochelle said, pointing to the respective letters, "above the Seine. This way, we'll both remember today, and Paris will remember us when we're both gone from here."

  "That's a lovely sentiment," Poppy said. "But… don't you live here?"

  "For the time being. My company is expanding, and there has been talk from the higher ups about temporarily transferring me to one of the new international branches to help them get started. Very likely Beijing or Tokyo, though I'd much prefer to remain on the Western hemisphere. I'll be spending at least a year wherever they send me."

  "When would that be happening?"

  "Within the next few weeks or months, likely," Rochelle said with an aloof shrug. "They've already begun dispatching a few of us on business trips to test the waters."

  "How do you feel about that?" Poppy asked.

  "I love Paris, but I'm sure I could love wherever I end up. The world is an exciting place, and I've only seen a portion of it. It's a mixture of excitement and melancholy, I suppose," Rochelle said, gazing listlessly out onto the lapping waters of the Seine. "Come, we're here, and we have a task at hand."

  Rochelle opened the lock that rested in Poppy's hand with a small key, and her fingers dropped away. She motioned with her head for Poppy to go ahead and place the lock. Poppy crouched down, found an unoccupied link, and clasped the lock shut. When she stood up, Rochelle placed the key in her hand.

  "There were two keys. One for me, one for you," she said. "And now, we toss," Rochelle instructed, flinging her key over the fence into the Seine River below, and Poppy followed her lead, two small splashes breaking the water's surface.

  Now, Poppy's desire urged her. The entire day, from breakfast to the panoramic view to being painted to the crêpes to this moment on the bridge, had been building up to this threshold, this perfect moment. She took a deep breath, and… released. There was no restaurant server this time to interrupt her from making her move; there was only herself in her way.

  Now! her entire being urged. She took another deep breath and looked up.

  The press of soft lips against hers was such a shock that it took her a few seconds to remember to kiss back. Her wide eyes met Rochelle's sultry gaze, and her lids closed as she felt Rochelle's hand glided up the back of her neck, tangling into her hair. Her fingers clutched at Rochelle's shoulder blades as the force of the kiss pushed her back against the wall of metal, rattling the countless locks as she fell against them. For a moment, Poppy thought the bridge was shaking, but it was only the quivering in her legs, lost in an embrace that sobered her up and intoxicated her all over again.

  It was a buzz alcohol could never match.

  Their lips parted, and Poppy looked at Rochelle with an unfocused gaze. "You beat me to the punch," she said, barely in control of her mouth or the words she said as her mind spun. Rochelle's eyes were glossy, and her lips were curved in a wide grin. "I like you, Rochelle."

  "I like you, Poppy," Rochelle said, and their lips reunited. Poppy was sure that passersby must be staring, but there was no shame, there was no need to lash at them, there was only Rochelle, her perfect lips, and the water lapping at the banks below—nothing else existed.

  As the kiss deepened, their lips opened, and Poppy felt Rochelle's tongue wander against her own, the lingering flavors of wine and cider on her breath making Poppy feel drunker than the alcohol itself.

  French kissing a French girl in France, she thought with an internal laugh and engaging in the light interplay of soft tongues probing and exploring each other's mouths. There was moisture below them, moisture welling in Poppy's loins, and Poppy could almost feel moisture prickling against her skin, covered in goose bumps.

  Rochelle broke the kiss to mutter something that Poppy, lost in another world, missed.

  "Hm?" she asked, returning to earth, to Paris, to the bridge.

  "It's raining," Rochelle repeated, her face still so close that their lips were nearly touching. "And neither of us brought an umbrella."

  "I like the rain in Paris," Poppy said dreamily.

  "As do I," Rochelle said, before planting a firm, brief kiss on Poppy's lips. "But let's enjoy it somewhere where we won't get wet."

  Poppy just nodded, feeling incapable of movement. She felt Rochelle's palm against hers, and the interlacing of fingers as Rochelle muttered "Come," and she allowed herself to be dragged away from the spot.

  Honesty

  They giggled as they hurried, practically skipping, hands interwoven, attached at the wrist and unwilling to separate. Eventually, they reached a brasserie with an awning, and Rochelle pulled her underneath, pressed against her body.

  "Well, I could use a cigarette. Would you like to split one?" Rochelle asked, squeezing Poppy's hand.

  "Can I be honest with you about something?" Poppy asked, feeling silly and ashamed.

  "Of course."

  "I don't smoke. I asked for a cigarette that first time I saw you outside the café because I wanted an excuse to… I guess just see you up close," Poppy said, blushing. Rochelle laughed, and caressed Poppy's cheek. "You're so damn beautiful, I couldn't stop myself…"

  "Well, as long as we're being honest with one another, I only went back there in the hopes of seeing you again."

  "Really?" Poppy said, with an expression of disbelief.

  "Yes. This breathtaking little American girl… I figured it was a long shot, but I suppose I got lucky," Rochelle said, her eyes endearing.

  "We both got lucky," Poppy said, and their lips met again. For fuck's sake, Poppy thought, when did I get so corny?

  "Nonetheless, I could still use a cigarette… do you mind?"

  "Not at all," Poppy said. Though Shannon had been adamantly against cigarettes, her time with April had conditioned her to tolerate being around the secondhand smoke, and… and why was she thinking of either of these girls now? Tendrils of blue smoke and the sweet smell of tobacco swirled around them, and Poppy sidled up against Rochelle's body.

  "Cold?" Rochelle asked.

  "Now that you mention it," Poppy said, taking note of the sudden chilliness in the air, her light clothing, and the goose bumps that were still on her skin from the moment on the bridge. "Yes, I believe I am."

  Rochelle wrapped an arm around her, one hand caressing Poppy's side, the ot
her lifting her cigarette to her lips. Poppy ringed her arms around Rochelle's waist, and rested her cheek on her shoulder, eyes closed.

  "Evening is approaching," Rochelle said after a minute of pleasant silence.

  "Does that mean our day has to end?" Poppy asked.

  "No," Rochelle whispered, placing a kiss on Poppy's forehead. "It just means our night has to begin."

  "That sounds wonderful," Poppy said.

  "Perhaps a light dinner is in order, though," Rochelle said, crushing the ember of her cigarette as she gently disengaged from Poppy and gestured toward the restaurant.

  "Let's," Poppy said, before Rochelle had a chance to ask.

  Fingertip Kisses

  They took a table inside, and Rochelle, as usual, ordered for both of them. As they waited for the food, Rochelle took one of Poppy's hands in both of hers, tracing the lines of Poppy's palm with the nail of her thumb, face concentrated in an intimate fascination with the look and feel of Poppy's skin. She caressed the sides each of Poppy's digits with her index finger and thumb, the gentle gravity of her touch bringing Poppy's hand closer to Rochelle's face until she could place small kisses against each fingertip.

  Poppy unconsciously rubbed her thighs together, entirely entranced by every simple sensation. Never had she been so tenderly taken over by another woman. Her entire body tingled, and her eyes lazily explored Rochelle's features: the smoldering, sensual look in her eyes, the slight flush of her cheeks, the adorable way her lips puckered and pressed against her pinky, ring, middle, index, thumb, and back, index, middle, ring, pinky in soft, slow pecks.

  The back of one of Rochelle's hands pressed against Poppy's palm, and the other hand caressed up from the wrist and closed the fingers around her hand, and lowered it to the table, still encapsulated in her grip.

  "I'm sorry," Rochelle said, breathily. "It's been a while."

  "You're kidding me. You are dangerously beautiful," Poppy said, almost regretting looking into Rochelle's intense eyes as her heart imploded in her chest. "I'm sure you could turn a straight girl if you wanted." Rochelle only gave a wry smile.

  "It's not for lack of opportunity. I travel so much, it's hard to maintain a relationship, and I've never been one for flings. I have colleagues who keep playthings around the world, but that just never appealed," she said, her eyes wandering into space. "It makes for a lonely life sometimes. Often."

  "Then why me?" Poppy asked, immediately regretting doing so. Wasn't the blissful ignorance enough? This was a fling—it really couldn't be anything more. It was a fact that she wanted to ignore until she was back in America.

  "Well, I did try to resist you. My own fault for teasing myself, and I thought I could control it, but…"

  "You can only delay gratification so long," Poppy finished for her.

  "Exactly," Rochelle said, running her fingers along Poppy's knuckles. "It's been wonderful, though. I don't regret any of it."

  "Neither do I," Poppy said, and Rochelle lifted Poppy's hand back to her face to kiss the heel of her palm. "So let's enjoy it while it lasts?"

  "Let's."

  The food arrived, and they ate leisurely. Poppy ate only to absorb the alcohol. It did nothing to satisfy the appetite which Poppy was now harboring inside which was growing with each moment each time her eyes locked with Rochelle's, each time she felt Rochelle's foot caress her thigh. When their looks became almost too intense, Rochelle dropped some money on the table, and they walked out onto the street, hand in hand.

  "Drinks?" Rochelle asked.

  "Drinks," Poppy responded.

  Poetry of Poppy

  As they stepped out of the taxi, light was waning rapidly from the sky, and Poppy felt like she recognized the scenery.

  "Isn't this where we had breakfast?" Poppy asked, as she and Rochelle stepped onto the sidewalk, and their arms linked again.

  "Mmhmm," Rochelle responded, leading her back into the same establishment where they had eaten that morning. "Time for cocktails."

  As they walked in, Poppy realized she was right about her inclinations earlier: what was a pleasant restaurant by morning became a scene for the nightlife by evening, the beginnings of a Thursday night crowd beginning to trickle in, music that sounded almost American filling the room.

  "What do you like to drink?" Rochelle asked in her ear, to be heard over the unnecessarily-loud sound system.

  "I like fruity stuff," Poppy said, almost apologetically. Rochelle smiled and nodded and ordered Poppy a drink that turned out to be bubbly and light crimson in color and ordered something with cognac for herself. Drinks in hand, Poppy followed Rochelle back through the doors to a row of seats outside, kept safe from the rain by an overhang.

  As they maneuvered to claim a table at the far corner, Poppy noticed blankets draped over pairs of chairs, and when they arrived, Rochelle wrapped the blanket from their chair around both of their shoulders. The cover and need for heat gave the two an unneeded excuse to huddle close together. They held hands in their cozy space, and Poppy rested her head on Rochelle's shoulder as they watched people in umbrellas, some with and some without coats walking on the street before them.

  They sipped in a contented silence for a minute or two.

  "I like this drink," Poppy said.

  "I'm glad," Rochelle said.

  The cozy quiet returned for another minute or two.

  "Thank you," Poppy said.

  "Thank you," Rochelle said, and kissed Poppy on the cheek.

  Sipping and silence.

  "More honesty?" Poppy asked.

  "Sure," Rochelle said.

  "That time at the café, when we were sitting together…"

  "Yeah?"

  "I looked at the poem you were writing. I couldn't read it."

  "That's a shame," Rochelle said, and took a sip. "It was about you."

  "Well… I could read the word 'blonde,' but I didn't want to get my hopes up…" Poppy admitted, squeezing Rochelle's hand. "Really, though? It was about me?"

  "Yeah. It wasn't very good, though. Just a little doodle as I sat there watching you."

  "So you were looking at me," Poppy almost squealed, wiggling her toes excitedly.

  "Well, of course. I was there hoping to see you. Besides, how could I not look at a pretty little thing like you?" She smiled to Poppy, and their lips met. For a moment, the cold entirely disappeared.

  "Write any more poetry about me?"

  "I did make a second attempt later that night after I had learned your name. I ended up with some contrived metaphor about opium, and I had to throw it out. Now that I've had a taste, however, I must say that you are somewhat addictive." Another smile, another kiss, another brief absence of cold.

  "You know, it's funny. You didn't even know me, and you made me your muse, but in two years, I don't think Shannon wrote a single song about me. She did write one for that bitch she ended up fucking, though… God, I'm stupid," Poppy said, slumping into Rochelle.

  "If not for her, you wouldn't be here now," Rochelle said, her voice full of soft reason. The cold lapsed for at least a minute. When their mouths separated, Rochelle indicated to the nearly empty glasses. "Another round?"

  "That sounds nice," Poppy said.

  "I'll fetch it," Rochelle said, placing her fingers on Poppy's shoulders to stop her from rising as well. "Keep the blanket warm."

  If Poppy wrote poetry, she would compose an ode to the wiggle in Rochelle's hips as she walked away, sweetened by the pleasure of knowing she would soon return.

  Wink, Clink, Drink

  Alone, Poppy sighed, unable to stop smiling. Her mind felt like a cloud—she had never in her life felt so ethereal—and she tried not to think about it, lest she awoke from the dream. Rochelle's face, her smile, her wandering eyes, flashed across Poppy's mind like lightning, followed by the music of her name like thunder. After a moment's concentration—which was rather difficult at this point, what with all the drinking over the past several hours, and the ridiculous levels of joy she was feeling
—she remembered Rochelle's real name: Momoka. Momo.

  "I want mo' Momo, please" Poppy muttered to herself, and laughed giddily. "Fuck, I'm stupid happy," she sighed, shaking her head and wriggling her fingers under the blanket, her body searching for any outlet for her excitement.

  As she sensed an approach, she looked up smiling.

  However, the person standing beside her was not Rochelle but a male stranger. He placed a hand on Rochelle's chair, gave Poppy a wink, and began speaking to her in rapid French. Poppy didn't know what to do but give him an extremely lost look. As he continued talking, and winked again, it dawned on Poppy that he was hitting on her, and Poppy became flustered. She wished she had learned to tell someone to go away in French. He seemed like he was ready to sit down next to her.

  For lack of knowing any other negative in French, Poppy said, softly, "Non."

  To her relief, Rochelle appeared behind the boy with the drinks, and confronted him in French, with a tone that was polite but authoritative. The stranger seemed somewhat unyielding until Rochelle sat down next to Poppy, put an arm around her in a manner that was both possessive and protective.

  The stranger said something else, sleaziness oozing from his inflection, Rochelle responded with words, though still unintelligible to Poppy, notably more forceful than before and pulled Poppy in for a firm kiss. She then stared the frazzled stranger down until he backed away with his tail between his legs and awkwardly lumbered away, likely in search for his next pursuit.

  "What did you say to him?" Poppy asked, irrationally ecstatic to be back in Rochelle's presence even though she had only been gone for a few minutes.

  "I expressed that you are accounted for, and when he was unwilling to accept this fact, I had to show him," Rochelle said curtly, pushing Poppy's drink toward her.

  "What did he say?" Poppy asked, and Rochelle gave her a stern stare.

  "You don't want to know."

  "You handled that well. I'm impressed."