An Autumn in Paris

by Alix Nichols

  “You should stop now, whatever size you are. You’re perfect.”

  “Aww. That was so romantic!” She bats her lashes at me. “If we were gay, this is when I’d kiss you.”

  She stares at the ceiling, as if she were playing the scenario out in her head. “Or maybe I’d take your hand first. That’s how Amar did it. He took my hand first.”

  Wow. She’s more lovesick than I thought.

  “He kissed it gently,” Manon continues, “while looking into my eyes. So hot.”

  Her eyes glaze over.

  I pat her shoulder. “You poor child.”

  Snapping back into the present moment, she rolls her eyes. “You have only three years on me, Mom.”

  “Three years and a pubescent son, kiddo.”

  Manon humphs to convey she’s unconvinced by my argument. The next moment, she’s snoring softly.

  I yawn, close my eyes, and zonk out.

  5

  Ugh—too much light!

  Peeling one eye open I take in the tray and the empty bottle on the nightstand. Slowly, I turn away from the white-curtained window. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Manon still asleep on her stomach, hugging her pillow. My gaze travels from her to the wall behind her and then to the other wall.

  Oops. That wall.

  Despite my best efforts to recognize that it’s as white as ever and squeaky clean, I see it red-stained from last night. Tomatoes, I remind myself, not blood. Or poop.

  But still.

  I rub my temples and try to shake that image. Manon and I had had so much fun last night lobbing our exes between swigs of wine. But now the meanness and sheer idiocy of our actions catches up with me and fills my good girl’s heart with embarrassment.

  Manon stirs and groans, “My head.”

  “Still there,” I say. “But it does look like it could do with an aspirin.”

  “That would be just the thing.” Her eyes are still closed. “Do you have any?”

  “Don’t move.”

  I sit up sharply, which makes my head turn, so instead of standing up and bustling about, I slide down and stretch out on the floor.

  “You OK?” Manon sounds worried.

  I lift my arm enough for her to see my fingers and give her an A-OK sign.

  When I finally force myself into a vertical position, she’s staring at the wall, her mouth drooping at the corners. “Shit.”

  “No, tomatoes.”

  She looks up at me. “Then again, they got what they deserved.”

  “Yeah, sure, but now that we’re sober and in broad sunlight, it does seem a bit… excessive.”

  She tilts her head to the side and tsk-tsks, just like my ninth-grade math teacher used to do when our denseness surpassed her most conservative projections.

  “Any shrink will tell you that our Massacre of the Exes was a genius idea,” she says.

  “No less?”

  She begins to count on her fingers. “The villains got retribution, the victims got satisfaction, and the mess will stay in virtual reality, invisible to anyone but you and me.”

  “Good points.” I head to the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. “Let me get your aspirin.”

  Over the next hour, we both take a pill and clean up a bit. I shower first, and while Manon washes, belting out her favorite songs, I begin to make pancakes.

  Romanian clatite aren’t that different from French crepes, except they taste better. Then again, doesn’t everything we ate as children?

  Mami would make them every Sunday morning for breakfast. Often, we’d have Marius—our always-traveling-for-work neighbors’ boy—over to partake in their sweet goodness.

  He’d usually knock on our door with a jar of Nutella in hand, or orange jam or some other yummy filling for Mami’s clatite. Anything he brought was a boon, given on how little Mami and I lived on in those days.

  After my grandparents passed, she became my only caretaker. She did her best, she really did, but the jobs she was able to land didn’t pay well. At some point, she even reached out to my moronic father who’d never been a part of the equation before. But he told her he had four legitimate children to feed, so she and I were on our own. According to Mami, he’d called them his real children.

  What a tool!

  Standing in my little kitchenette in one of the most charming arrondissements of Paris, I whisk together eggs, butter, milk and flour. But my mind is in a different place and time—thirteen years ago, in Romania.

  The part of Bucharest where Mami and I lived was a weird, socially unclassifiable place. It was one of those mixed neighborhoods where everyone seemed in transit. People who weren’t yet rich enough to move to a better part of town rubbed shoulders with folks not yet so poor as to move to the slums.

  Mami and I were headed for the slums, spiraling down in a slippery, painful glide that no amount of frugality could stop. We knew we couldn’t stay. Our objective was to somehow last one more year, so I could graduate without having to acclimate to a new high school. With my respectable grades in math and geometry, which I loved, it would’ve been a shame to change schools my final year.

  Once I had my high school certificate, we’d be out. I’d find a job, and we’d keep our heads above water.

  Unlike us, Marius’s family was going up at a steady, picture-perfect ascent that came as no surprise given how hard his parents worked—him a company lawyer and her an attorney. They’d made and saved enough to buy a fashionable loft apartment in the old town, not far from Stavropoleos Church. Refurbished and decorated, the place was waiting for when Marius finished school. Not the same school I attended. He went to a private school.

  But until that day, his upward and my downward paths in life ran parallel. And one warm April afternoon, our parallel lines defied the laws of non-projective geometry and intersected on the real plane.

  I grab a spatula and flip the first pancake over. It browns much too quickly, but I’m not alarmed. I just transfer it to a plate, fold it, and take a bite. The first pancake is never going to be presentable no matter how hard you try, so the best attitude is to adjust expectations. Besides, its true purpose is to serve as the pancake maker’s snack.

  Pouring more batter into the skillet, I swirl it around. This one will turn out just as it should.

  I was never able to pinpoint the day, week, or even month when my friendship with Marius grew into something more.

  Maybe the reason why that magical moment is so elusive is that it wasn’t a moment. Our falling in love happened gradually over several years. It deepened with every Sunday breakfast we shared, every funny text message we exchanged, every balcony chat we never wanted to end… But the day we put words to the things we felt will be one of my happiest memories for as long as I live.

  We were cramming for exams, each on our balcony. The balconies were separated by a waist-high barrier made from yellow plexiglass.

  “I really like what you’ve done to your nails,” Marius said.

  Earlier that afternoon, I’d painted them red with little white dots while committing the periodic table to memory.

  “Thanks!” Surveying my handiwork, I winked at him. “Would you like me to do yours in the same style?”

  He laughed and then his expression grew serious. “If it means your hands will touch mine, and I’ll be able to look at your face as much as I want, and listen to your crazy sexy voice, then do it.”

  Thus began our week-long flirtation across the barrier.

  Somehow, when we saw each other elsewhere in the building or on the street, even when we rode the elevator together, we always kept it friendly and casual. He’d never hit on me, never made a salacious remark. I’d never flirted with him. All we’d done was stare. A lot. I guess, being neighbors and friends—not to mention, noobs with zero sexual experience—we simply didn’t know how to move up a gear.

  But out there on our balconies with a textbook in hand and a panel between us, we felt safe. Safe to experiment, to tease and to venture into the gr
ay area between a hangout and a date…

  One after another, pretty golden clatite leave the skillet to join the stack on the platter.

  I remember wondering if Marius had really meant those words, if he actually liked me. How could I be sure it wasn’t some cruel prank he was playing on me? Could I trust him?

  Thing was, I’d known him most of my life. His heart was always in the right place. He didn’t shoot down birds, and he didn’t catcall or harass girls. He never bullied anyone. On the contrary, he stood up to bullies. So yeah, if there was anyone in my life besides Mami that I could trust, it was him.

  I startle when Manon springs out of the bathroom, looking all fresh and not at all hungover. “Can I help?”

  I instruct her about the toppings. With a “Yes, Ma’am,” she gets down to work. She spreads the different flavors, then rolls some of the clatite into tubes and folds others into triangles.

  When I finish, I separate Liviu’s share and brew some coffee. We eat quickly. Manon needs to be somewhere at eleven, and I want to get the grocery shopping done before Gilles’s mom brings Liviu back.

  At ten to eleven, we both leave the building.

  “You looked so sad when we sat down to breakfast,” Manon says as we head in the direction of the bistro. “Did something happen or anyone call you while I was in the shower?”

  “Nah.” I shake my head. “Just got a little nostalgic cooking clatite, that’s all.”

  She surveys me. “You know what the best thing about last night’s Massacre of the Exes was?”

  “What?”

  “To watch my bestie laughing and having fun with none of the usual sadness in her eyes.”

  I smile.

  She takes my hand and gives it a gentle squeeze.

  It’s in that exact moment that we bump into a familiar-looking man—panty-meltingly hot in his joggers and hoody with a sports bag flung across his shoulder. He exits the gym but our joined hands block his progress.

  Dr. Thomas Brousse.

  Everyone says sorry, and Manon lets go of my hand. I can see in his eyes that he recognizes me. We exchange an awkward greeting, and then he strides away.

  Manon shoots me a quizzical look. “Who’s the hottie?”

  “Baloo’s new vet.”

  “Lives locally, eh?”

  “Down the street.”

  She gives his retreating figure a once-over before turning to me. “If you change your mind about ‘fraternizing with the enemy,’ I hope it’s him you pick.”

  “He’s out of my league, louloutte.”

  “Running into each other like this?” She wags her index finger. “With eleven million people in Paris? It’s a sign, louloutte. A huge one.”

  “Only two million without the burbs,” I say. “And he lives on my street, remember?”

  She squirms. “OK, a small sign, then.”

  “Besides, how do you know he isn’t a Scrooge, like Kevin, or that he doesn’t go ape after a few drinks?”

  “I don’t,” she says, “which is why I’m going to replenish our poop bomb arsenal while you two date.”

  6

  It’s Friday night at La Bohème, and Liviu, Baloo and I are celebrating the end of Liviu’s school week. He’s enjoying a glass of Jeanne’s maison lemonade, while I’m sipping my favorite Sancerre white. Baloo is chewing his rawhide bone at our feet.

  Liviu and I started the tradition last year.

  Then we got Baloo, and Jeanne said he was welcome at the bistro as long as he didn’t bark. Thankfully, Baloo’s been on his best behavior every single time. Liviu loves being here. On the first week of each month just after I get paid we also come to La Bohème for lunch, but I can’t afford to eat out weekly.

  Maybe next year, if the universe finally decides I deserve that second job I’ve been trying to land for three years now. An usher at Le Grand Rex. Or a ticket seller. Or a counter attendant. Or just a cleaner. I don’t mind vacuuming, scrubbing, and sweeping more than I already do if it’s at Le Grand Rex.

  That Art Deco movie theater is one the reasons Liviu and I moved to the neighborhood five years ago. It’s my special world, my escape, a place that makes me happy.

  Liviu and I had a chance to go there again last Sunday. Nico had slipped the three tickets he’d bought into my mailbox with a note that said he was leaving me alone, and this was his goodbye gift. At the theater, I kept looking over my shoulder, afraid it was a trap and Nico would be sitting just behind us. But he wasn’t. Maybe he meant it. Maybe he’s really leaving me alone.

  The show was in the Great Hall, a humongous room with the biggest screen in Paris. Its ceiling is painted to look like a starry night sky. The walls have reliefs of old Mediterranean villas, giving it a French Riviera vibe.

  Liviu loved the show, and I had fun, too, mostly just from being there. If only I could get a job at Le Grand Rex, I’d have the privilege of being there every day!

  Problem is the theater never seems to have a suitable position for me. It’s not that they’re too picky. Actually, they sort of are, what with being the most amazing movie theater in Paris, but I think I would’ve managed to find something given how hard I’ve tried.

  My main handicap is that I’m a concierge. The job comes with a huge perk—free accommodations—but it has a downside. Some of my tasks need my presence in the building at certain times of the day.

  My contract allows me to work outside of those times, which I do, cleaning a few apartments in the building, and occasionally dog sitting. But so far, I’ve been unable to reconcile my concierge obligations with a part-time position at La Grand Rex.

  Halfway through Liviu’s lemonade and my wine, Dr. Brousse walks into the bistro.

  He’s still tall, still gorgeous.

  Damn!

  Every time I see this guy—and this is the third time in three weeks—I find him even more attractive than before. I’ve told Manon that my appreciation is purely esthetic because he’s way too hot for me.

  The truth is more… complicated.

  I’ve been entertaining nightly fantasies about him. My favorite one isn’t the wildest or the most creative out there, but it’s the best because it’s realistic. It’s an alternative history of my visit to his clinic two weeks ago with Baloo.

  In this fantasy, I don’t cover my breasts after my wardrobe malfunction. Chewie is magically transferred to the floor and scampers into a corner. Dr. Brousse walks around the exam table and stops very close to me.

  We stare at each other, and the same magic that transported Baloo to the floor transforms me into a bold seductress.

  And yes, I know I said “realistic.” Still—it’s a fantasy.

  Not only do I not try to hide my breasts from his famished gaze, but I push my chest out, and I stare into his eyes. Maybe lick my lips while I’m at it.

  He puts his big hand on my right breast, cupping it gently. It’s heaven. We stare some more, and then his other hand travels down to my tummy, slides into my panties, and descends until it’s exactly where I need it. His fingers rub and circle me. They spread my folds and find the opening, and then one or two dive in.

  By that moment in the fantasy, I’m so close that all I need to do is touch myself and apply the tiniest bit of pressure. Then I can lie back and enjoy a sweet release. It’s perfect. Who needs an actual boyfriend when you can just imagine the hot vet living down the street, and come?

  Said vet looks around for a free table when his gaze falls on Baloo. “Hey, I know you!”

  He grins and strides to our table.

  Liviu gives me a questioning look.

  “It’s the new vet, Dr. Brousse,” I say.

  “Baloo, right?” A quick look at me for permission, and the vet hunkers down next to Baloo. “Aka, Chewie. How’s he doing?”

  “Great,” I say as Dr. Brousse pets the dog. “His tummy is much happier on the dog food you recommended.”

  “Glad to hear that.” He glances at Liviu and then at me. “I assume the young man is yo
ur son?”

  I nod.

  The young man in question, ever keen to show how grown-up and autonomous he’s become, extends his hand. “Hi, I’m Liviu.”

  “I’m Thomas.” They shake hands, and Dr. Brousse turns to me, smiling expectantly.

  Is it my turn to reveal my first name? Except… what about the professional distance between a doctor and his patient? I mean, a doctor and his patient’s parent? I mean the patient’s owner?

  “We’re neighbors,” he says, as if sensing my hesitation. “And don’t worry. Being on first-name terms won’t make me sloppy with Baloo. He’ll still get the best care I can provide.”

  The lightness and humor in his voice put me at ease. “I’m Daniela. Everyone calls me Dana.”

  “Do you know the neighborhood well?” he asks.

  “Pretty well.”

  “It’s just that I haven’t had time to explore it yet.” He shifts a little, but stays where he is. “Turns out, the Internet isn’t terribly useful when trying to find a no-fuss houseplant, a pattern-free shower curtain and a lightbulb, all within walking distance.”

  I lean forward, happy to be of help. “There’s a big supermarket that carries all those items, and pretty much everything you’ll ever need.”

  “Yesss! I knew it.”

  “It’s on a tiny cul-de-sac off rue du Faubourg Montmartre, hidden behind a row of trees, which is why only locals know about it.”

  I give him the address and he types it into his phone.

  “This is so helpful, thank you!” He straightens his back and points to the vacant chair across from me. “May I sit down for a minute and ask you a couple more practical questions?”

  “Of course!” Liviu says before I can open my mouth. “I can tell you where to find the best ice cream.”

  He sits down and turns to Liviu. “Amorino, I hope?”

  “Berthillon.”

  Manon comes by to take his order. “You’re the new vet!”

  “Indeed, I am.” He flashes her a big smile. “We bumped into each other last Sunday.”

  “Welcome to the hood and to La Bohème!” She points to the chalkboard on the wall. “You must try today’s special. Our chef has surpassed himself.”