by Meg Ripley
After four years of studying classic, modern, and postmodern art—and making some pieces of my own—I wanted to delve into the culture that so many of my favorite artists came out of. I had spent the week between final exams and graduation getting my paperwork together for a one-year visitor visa, and applying for freelance work that I could do anywhere in the world so that I wouldn’t be completely dependent on my parents’ money.
I’d sent the Pratt Institute Graduate program admissions office a letter telling them that I was deferring my start for one year due to “personal issues” and had been advised in response that all I would have to do is submit a new application for the following year by the deadline, and I would be able to start on schedule. But now that I’m in France, I’m considering that maybe—possibly—I can at least look at applying to graduate programs here; after all, the worst they can do is tell me no.
I stand around in my kitchen, at a loss for exactly what to do with myself. I’m exhausted, but restless at the same time, and I just can’t seem to make myself do the responsible thing and go to bed. I’ve gotten into town too late to go to the store and pick up any groceries—I’ll be starving in the morning—but after a day of stuffing my face with the best fast food Paris has to offer, I’m not hungry. I still have about half of a 1.5-liter bottle of water, so if I get thirsty before I can fall asleep, at least there’s that.
As I’m pondering what to do in the middle of the night in my new apartment, I suddenly notice a light come on in a window across the alley. I probably shouldn’t stare, but I’m tired and curious, and I can’t quite help myself.
I watch as a guy appears, walking into the living room of the apartment, carrying what looks like some kind of long, tough-sided case with stickers all over it.
The guy is tall, broad across the shoulders and super muscular, wearing tattered jeans, a tight tee shirt and a leather jacket. He’s got dark hair with closely-shaved sides, and when he takes off his jacket and tosses it onto his living room couch, I notice that his heavy, muscled arms are covered in tattoos. He looks like someone out of a 1950’s motorcycle gang, some amped-up James Dean type who I have to imagine spends at least an hour at the gym every day—totally unlike my scrawny douchebag of an ex-boyfriend.
He throws himself down onto the couch and then, out of the blue, I feel a tickle in my nose and let out a huge sneeze, catching his attention. His head whips around and, in a split second, we lock eyes.
I see his eyebrows go up, and it’s like the spell has lifted. I feel the blood rushing to my face as I realize I’ve been caught staring, and start to head into the living room, though there’s not really anything for me to do there without internet or cable. Oh, God. I’m such a freaking idiot, I tell myself.
I try to talk myself out of the deep embarrassment I feel, and start pacing the living room, my heart pounding in my chest, more restless than ever.
Just then, I catch a fleeting glimpse of movement out of the corner of my eye, and turn my head to see my neighbor from across the narrow alleyway standing at another window in his living room, right across from the one I’m closest to. His window is open and he’s waving his thickly muscled arms, presumably to get my attention.
Oh, God, how can this get any worse? I think about just closing the curtains over my own window and making a dash to my bedroom, but he’s already seen me.
He knows I’ve seen him.
He waves his massive arms again, one eyebrow raised, and my curiosity wins out over my embarrassment. There’s a little hand-lever on one side of my window, and after fumbling with it a few times, I realize which way to turn it to be able to pull it open, almost like a door.
“Oooh-ooh,” the man calls out. “Vous avez passé un bon voyage?” It takes my tired, scrambled brain a minute to process the question. “Vous êtes le nouveau locataire, non?” That gives me a little more trouble, but I finally translate it all in my mind. Did you have a good trip? You’re the new tenant, right?
“Oui—oui, je...j’ai passé un bon voyage,” I call back, confirming that yes, I had a good trip. “Tu—no, vous. Connaissez-vous Claude?” My tongue tries to rebel and mess up my pronunciation, but I manage to get the words out, mostly, as I ask him if he knows my landlord, Claude.
“Ah, ouais, je le connais bien,” the man says. Oh, yeah, I know him well, I translate mentally. “Il est génial.” He’s great.
“Ouais, n'est-ce pas?” I reply in agreement. What else do we have to talk about? I feel weird, especially since the guy’s deep voice is surprisingly smooth, and I can’t help but wonder what it would be like to be fluent enough to talk to him in an actual conversation instead of this awkwardly-strained small talk we’re exchanging. “Comment vous appelez vous?” What’s your name? It’s a stupid question, but at least it’s a normal stupid question.
“Je suis Jacques,” he says. “Et toi?” Apparently, there’s no real rule for when someone shifts between tu and vous, I think to myself.
“Je m’appelle Nora,” I answer. Now I’m really out of things to say. “Je dois…” I try to think of what the right verb is and realize that I’m using the wrong conjugation anyway. “Je devrais aller me coucher,” I say, trying to sound apologetic as I tell him I should go to bed.
“Ah, bon—tu as eu une longue journée,” Jacques says. Oh, right. You’ve had a long day.
How does he know? I want to shake my head at myself as I realize that if he knows my landlord, Claude has probably mentioned me to this guy, and that it would be obvious it was a long day for me, just getting there at night.
“Ah…” I lick my lips and try to think of what it is you say to end a conversation politely. “Bonne soirée.” I wish him good night, giving Jacques a quick smile. God, I’m such a tool.
“A toi aussi,” You too. Jacques takes my way of saying good night as just the normal thing, and as embarrassing and awkward as the whole situation is, I pat myself on the back, realizing that I’ve somehow successfully made my way through all of the conversations I’ve had in French today. No wonder my brain feels like someone’s been poking it with a hot stick. I manage to get the window closed, draw the curtain and wander into my bedroom.
“Okay, it’s been a ridiculous day, and you need to just get out of your travel clothes, clean up a bit, and go to bed,” I tell myself, scrubbing at my face with my hands. I want to believe that I’ve been feeling better ever since I moved off campus and put hundreds—then thousands—of miles between me and Ethan, but I’m still trying to make sense of what happened.
I start to strip off my clothes and toss them on the floor. In the back of my mind, ever since I found out about Ethan cheating on me, a little voice has been saying that it was because I wasn’t good enough; I wasn’t hot enough, or kinky enough, or something enough for him to be faithful to me. No matter how many times I keep telling myself that it has nothing to do with me—that Ethan is just a disgusting, sorry excuse for a human being—I can’t quite shake the feeling. All that time we’d been together, he’d at least made some kind of show of being in love with me, of being committed to me. Shouldn’t I have figured it out on my own? Shouldn’t I have known something was wrong?
I shake off the idea yet again and open my suitcase to get to my bath towel and toiletries. I drape the towel around me and walk from my bedroom to the bathroom. When I lose my grasp on one end of the towel for a brief moment, I quickly grab it and wrap it around myself tightly, glancing at the window that still has the curtains open in the living room. My new neighbor across the alley seems to have left, though the light is still on in his living room.
I dart into the bathroom and spend more time than I would want to admit figuring out the shower. There’s a kitchen sink-type faucet hanging over the tub, and a handheld sprayer and shower head that has a mounting up above my head but sits on the bar with the hot and cold water knobs. Finally, I figure out the right temperature and set my towel on the sink for when I’m done.
You have to admit, though, he’s pretty
hot—at least from a distance, anyway. An image of the brawny, tattooed man across the alley reconstructs itself in my mind. It’s been a little over a month since I broke up with Ethan, and I don’t think I’m ready to get involved with anyone, but what harm is there in a little fantasy?
I lather up my coconut-scented shower gel and spread the bubbles over my arms and shoulders, down over my breasts, and wonder what a guy like Jacques would be like in bed. He’s so hot that I have to think his hands would be all over someone in an instant—in this case, in my little fantasy, me—pulling and kneading and rubbing with the insistence of a hungry animal, almost greedy for more. I imagine he’d nibble and nip at my sensitive skin and reach down between my legs, stroking me, and as I’m imagining it, I find myself mimicking what his powerful hands would be doing.
But then, even as I’m getting more and more turned on by my own imagination, I stop. Am I really standing here in the shower touching myself to the thought of some guy I only just met, who I know nothing at all about? I shake my head and rinse myself off, keeping it quick so I’m not tempted to lapse into more self-fondling.
I turn off the water and dry myself off, but by the time I’m padding back into my room, I can’t be bothered to put on pajamas. I just climb between the brand-new sheets on my bed, curl up under the fluffy cotton duvet, and in a matter of minutes, I’m fast asleep.
Chapter FIVE
Jacques
Even though I had a late night practicing with the band, I manage to make it into the shop 5 minutes early.
“Yo, Jacques,” Julienne says as I come in through the back door of the shop. “How’s the band?”
“We’re getting ready to play a show next week,” I say. “For once, Pascal managed to have his shit together and was able to get to practice on time, so we managed to get through our whole set twice.”
“Once Yann has the flyers made up, bring them into the shop,” Julienne suggests, tightening her thin, silver ponytail. My boss has always been like a second mother, always looking out for me.
I nod. “I also met my new neighbor,” I tell her. “Claude’s new tenant—did Christophe mention her?”
Julienne rolls her eyes. “He said something about an American taking the apartment,” she says.
“I have to admit, she’s pretty damn cute,” I say. I think about the girl I saw across the alley the night before; she’d looked short, though at that distance, it’s hard to really tell, with long, dark hair and a curvy body—the kind of body you only really see on Americans, usually. Lucky for me, she dropped her towel on her way to the bathroom, letting me get more than an eyeful for a second; I’d be lying if I said my cock didn’t move in my pants at the sight of her.
“Don’t tell me you’re going to get American chick fever, too,” Julienne says with a groan.
“Not a chance, Boss. The last thing I want to do is stir up a whole mess of drama by hooking up with my neighbor. And you know I swore off dating for a year, at least, after everything with Amandine,” I reply.
“Oh, please. That will last until some woman is helpless and in trouble and needs you to defend her honor, Sir Gauvain,” she says.
Julienne’s nickname for me, Sir Gauvain, is based on the Arthurian romances. It’s stupid, but a part of me has to admit I kind of like it.
“So, you’re not going to watch over that new girl in the apartment across from yours?” Julienne gives me a significant look.
I sigh.
“She’s cute, but I’m only looking to watch over myself right now,” I say with a laugh, as I go to my station to start getting ready for the day.
Julienne goes to the front counter to set up the register system while I’m looking through my book, going over the last few designs I need to refine for clients coming in later in the day; all the usual things.
“You know,” Julienne says from the cash register, “in all the years I’ve known you, you’ve probably told me you’re done with women ‘for a year at least’ about ten times, and every time you’ve said it, you’ve ended up dating someone within three months.”
“Is there a moral to this story?” I test my tattoo machine and set it aside to sterilize it again before my first client of the day.
“The moral to it is that you aren’t the kind of man who stays single,” Julienne says. “And you should just accept that.”
“You just want to convert me to your ideology about settling down and having kids,” I say.
“Well, God, you’re not getting any younger,” Julienne counters. “You’re already over thirty—and you haven’t been in a relationship longer than maybe a year. Even then, I don’t think you were ever really serious about Amandine.”
“I was very serious about Amandine,” I protest. “She wasn’t serious about me.”
“Well, I’m telling you, one day, you’re going to end up meeting a girl that will change everything.”
“And if I do, then I’ll marry her,” I say with a shrug. “But I don’t see why I have to sit through this sermon.”
“I’m done with it,” Julienne says, sighing. “I just want to see you happy, Jacques.”
“I’m plenty happy being single,” I insist.
Julienne throws up her hands and heads into the back room to get the cash for the register from the safe.
I think about what she said, in spite of how dismissive I was when she was saying it. I’m not really interested in Nora. She’s hot, and the way that she fumbled a bit with her speaking the night before was kind of endearing, but I have to admit that I’m a little hesitant to encourage Christophe or Yann to go after her.
Christophe especially. The way he was talking about American girls…
I shake my head; Yann might be a better choice for her, but I still don’t like the idea of my band-mate going after the girl I saw the night before.
You don’t even know her, Jacques. Claude said she was an artist—what if she’s like Amandine? Amandine was a girl I dated about five years ago. She was studying for her degree in art, and she’d been the kinkiest of any women I’d ever dated before or since. She’d also been a total slut, cheating on me with a bunch of other guys in the six months we’d dated.
But something tells me that Nora isn’t that kind of artist. There’s something about the way she ran from the kitchen in her place when she realized I’d caught her staring, and the way I could still see the blush in her cheeks when she’d seen me flagging her attention.
I go through the rest of the day trying not to think about her, working away and chatting with Pascal over the buzzing of my machine when he comes in to get some of the color filled in on the last tattoo I did for him. We talk about the upcoming show and plan a few extra rehearsals, and he asks if there are any updates on the story Yann brought to rehearsal—the story of the new tenant in Claude’s unit.
“I saw her last night, actually,” I say, carefully following the line work I’d inked into his skin last week. “She’s cute. Keep Yann away from her.”
Pascal carefully laughs, trying to keep the needle from moving astray on his skin. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you argue for some girl to be kept away from Yann,” Pascal points out. “Normally you’re telling Yann to stay away from girls for his own good.”
“Considering Claude’s told everyone who will listen about her, she’s going to be wading through guys in the next week,” I point out. “And her French isn’t great.”
“She’s an American, it doesn’t have to be,” Pascal says.
“She’s not bad, but you can tell that she doesn’t really speak French, you know?”
“Her French is probably better than your English,” Pascal suggests.
“True.” I laugh. “I don’t know if I could even put three sentences together.” I step back from the table he’s lounging on so I can examine my progress. I’m almost done.
“So, are you going to offer her a memento of her time in France? A little tattoo to take home?”
I smirk at the idea, but I h
ave to admit, it’s not a bad one. It would give me an excuse to get to know the girl a little better.
Why do I want to get to know her better? I ask myself. It makes no sense. She’ll probably abandon her lease in three months or so, and even if she doesn’t, I made a commitment to myself not to get involved with any women for at least a year.
“I’ll probably just say ‘hi’ on occasion, or maybe invite her to have a glass over at Le Lido or something like that,” I say.
“You say that, but you’re going to start talking to her, and then you’ll be taking her to the Musée des Beaux-Arts, or offering to take her out of the city to go to Versailles or something,” Pascal tells me.
I shake my head. “Not interested,” I tell him. “I’m too busy with my own shit.”
“So, introduce her to me,” Pascal says with a grin.
“Dude, do you have a weird American fetish like Christophe?”
Pascal shrugs as I clean his freshly-inked skin with antiseptic and wrap the area. “I just think she’ll be interesting to talk to,” Pascal says. “I mean, don’t you?”
I shrug off his question. “I don’t even know if she’ll have enough ability to speak French to say anything worthwhile.”
“She’ll only get better if she practices. You should encourage her, since you’ve already introduced yourself,” Pascal points out.
“Nah, man,” I say. “She can get plenty of practice with guys on Tinder or wherever.”
Pascal raises an eyebrow at that, and I walk up to the cash register with him to charge him for the session.
“You don’t want Yann or Christophe to have anything to do with her, but you want her to meet random guys on Tinder?” Pascal shakes his head. “I think you’re afraid you’ll end up liking her.”
