A Second Chance in Paris

by Ziv Amit

  Now, when the front door opens and the photographer walks in, holding onto the model by his side, introducing her as if she were a shiny new toy he has just purchased, The Beauty lets go of my arm and walks over to them, leaving me to be chaperoned by the local tall man. He proceeds to give me his commentary on the characters who have just entered the apartment and then offers to dance, I’m much more interested in looking at The Beauty and the photographer but I feel uncomfortable turning him down, so I lose sight of them and let him take me to the room where the people are dancing, he places his arm around my waist in a territorial gesture and I show no resistance.

  I’m finding it hard to move to the beat of the music with another man, I’m too familiar with my own man’s movements and this physical discrepancy seems strange and mechanical to me. He’s trying to get closer to me and embrace me, but it feels wrong and uncomfortable to me and I make sure to keep a safe dancing distance from him, creating a private bubble of music and steps for myself, closing my eyes and dropping my head back, or looking at a random point in the room, protected from him and from his ever-searching closeness. The new tall man is trying to look into my eyes, trying to create more intimacy to allow him to close in on his bedroom fantasy for the coming night, but I keep my distance and after a little while longer of dancing together I withdraw from him, explain that my feet hurt and walk over to rest on a little armchair in the corner of the room. He tries to accompany me and stands next to me chivalrously, but he doesn’t really have enough space next to me and he kind of resembles a lampshade which has been lamely forgotten in the corner, standing still with no one having any need for him, surely not me. After a few moments of me ignoring him he turns away and goes to get a drink for another muse, someone else for him to try to tempt into bed tonight with drinks, dancing and conversations about art and paintings.

  My eyes follow him with gratitude and I turn my look to the photographer and The Beauty who is by his side. They’re standing in the center of the room, the photographer’s head almost swallowed whole within the flowing locks of hair of all the women surrounding him. He’s standing there wearing dark jeans and a black shirt, surrounded by women wearing dresses and tiny skirts, as if he were a dark and menacing stain enveloped by twinkling stars. He’s using animated hand gestures to describe some work of art while everyone’s eyes look up at him admiringly. The Beauty has her arm around his waist, as if she’s trying to keep him all to herself, but he doesn’t strike me as the all-to-herself type. I see his eyes, how they smilingly wander around, I see his gaze rolling over each and every one of the women surrounding him, making sure they’re his. And the women retort with excited smiles at his words and with random touches on his arm, completely ignoring The Beauty’s presence.

  I look at The Beauty who’s still holding on to the photographer, hanging onto his arm and ignoring how his eyes wander across all the women who are clinging to him. She’s trying to maintain ownership over him, though I think she doesn’t stand a chance against the attack of the surrounding dresses and touching hands. I find her interesting and I like her and I feel bad for her, it’s not easy to live with that sort of relationship. “Your imagination is working overtime,” I tell myself off, “you know her for half an hour and already you feel sorry for her and her sad life story.” Perhaps all the stories you tell yourself are actually one big make-believe? Maybe he’s actually the most faithful man in the world? Maybe they actually have a wonderful relationship and he’s actually very sensitive and listens to her every night before bed way more than your Tall One does? How can you know what they have going between them? Whatever the case may be, my imagination seems much more interesting, and besides, she looks sad and I like her.

  “I wonder if I could live that way with my Tall One,” I continue with my line of thought. Live with the knowledge that every so often he picks up someone for a night or two of adventures, while you’re there admiring him and loving him enough to stay instead of leaving him. “Me? I saw what that woman sent to his smartphone and I freaked out and accused him of cheating, there’s no way I’d agree to that kind of free-lifestyle arrangement,” I laugh to myself.

  “It would be interesting to know how he’s doing, do you think he’s still waiting for you at the hotel?” I wonder as I check my smartphone, which looks like its usual dead self. Nothing, not even a hint of interest, maybe something happened to him? Maybe I should call him to make sure he’s alive? Just a tiny little sign. “Are you insane? Don’t you dare, have you forgotten what happened to you this morning?” You’re not calling anybody, he definitely has a reason for not calling you and it’s definitely not a reason that’s in your favor, if he cared about you he would have called by now and if he’s lying dead in some street then he deserves it. Enough already with your delusion of love and relationship maintenance, you’re at a party, so sit down and have fun. But not with that local tall man, I really don’t like him, and put the smartphone back in the bag, you’re not making any phone calls, you don’t care whether he’s gone out or stayed at the hotel.

  Hotel, Room 314

  Adam

  “What’s the time? Where am I? At the hotel? Where is Kate? Did she call?” I think I slept a lot and it’s taking me time now to wake up and realize where I am. I have no idea what I did all day, at least my headache’s gone, I don’t think I did anything today.

  My watch is placed on the bedside table and I check the time, it’s evening already. I spent a whole day inside the hotel room, what a terrible day.

  “You found a great way to spend your vacation, closing yourself off in a dark room at a hotel with the curtains drawn.” Maybe I should keep this up for another day or two, make it a real great vacation.

  “I hurt her.” I sit on the edge of the bed, place my head between my hands, rub my face and try to organize my thoughts, I don’t exactly know what to do with all of them. That’s absolutely not true, I just can’t admit to myself that I was mean to her. That I’ve been mean to her this whole time.

  “I’ve been mean, I’ve been really mean.” I look at the carpeted floor of the room and rub the back of my neck hard. Maybe I’ll turn the TV on for a bit? I can’t get myself to tell her that, to say, “I’ve been mean to you.” I think I’m better off looking for something to watch on TV than dealing with all these thoughts. What kind of husband am I if I can’t admit this sort of thing?

  “Is that what you want to do? Run away from her and escape into the TV?” I ask myself, but I know that if I admit it I’ll have to apologize to her or try to fix things. She definitely expects me to apologize, she’s my wife, I know her, I know she expects me to apologize. I’m sorry, but I can’t apologize. She hurt me so bad, it was so painful.

  “So apologize, so what?” I can’t, not after she accused me of cheating on her like that. What did I do that was so bad? I just gave someone from work a book to read, that’s where it all started. Later on, when it got all complicated, I tried to explain to The Little One what had happened and she refused to listen to me or to believe me, she just up and left. I like calling her The Little One, ever since I first laid eyes on her I thought of her as The Little One, my woman, standing among them all and catching my attention with that wonderful smile. How can I forgive her for leaving me like that?

  “But she’s making an effort.” Yes, that’s true, she is making an effort and I’m conversing with my thoughts and trying to understand what it is I should do. Maybe I should retreat back to the TV, I’m not sure I can handle everything that’s happened.

  I know she’s sorry and I know she’s trying, but it doesn’t seem like it’s enough for me, it’s only enough until her freedom comes into the picture. Yesterday when I told her I didn’t want her to go she just up and left, what should I have done? Stand there crying and tell her she broke my heart when she left me that time? I really did cry when she left me that time, she doesn’t even know that. I’ll never tell her.

  How can
I even apologize? Where can she even be? It’s late already.

  “Maybe call her and find out where she is?”

  I don’t think I should call her, what can I tell her after my awful behavior this morning?

  “You have to do something.”

  Not right now, I’ll wait, where could she be? It’s really late.

  At the Party, Really Late

  Kate

  The music is quiet now and the apartment is almost empty, hardly any people left, most have already gone. It’s taking me a moment to look around and remember where I am, I think I napped in the little armchair in the corner and now I’m slowly waking up. Two couples are still slow dancing in the other room, and a few people are sitting and talking or just embracing or napping like I just did. People are still scattered around the house, but most of the guests have already left, taking with them the sounds of commotion and leaving nothing but faint mumbles of conversation. “I shouldn’t have had alcohol here, that was too much considering the day I had,” I think to myself, I must have been an interesting topic of conversation sleeping here the way I did while the party kept happening around me, “the poor little reject off the street with nowhere to sleep, what are we going to do about her tonight?” The thought makes me blush and I hope no one notices.

  I sit in the little armchair for a few moments longer, looking around, letting my body wake up, thinking it’s the right time to get out and continue the journey to the hotel.

  On my way out I glance through the open balcony window, it’s vacant and empty, as if inviting me over, and I walk over to the curly iron handrail decorated with metallic filigree, grab hold of it and look down at the street beneath me.

  I look down, searching for my bench, searching for my silhouette which was standing alone in the street earlier, looking up. The street is desolate now and there’s no one to take my place down there, nothing but dark sidewalks and yellow lights of street lamps casting shadows, and the occasional person walking swiftly by wrapped in a coat.

  I have no desire to return to the hotel, but I think I’ve taken advantage of this party’s hospitality to the max, especially after having fallen asleep the way I did. “Time to return home, Cinderella, your glass slippers are already hurting you and tomorrow you have a brand new day of wandering the streets,” I convince myself sullenly while I take the smartphone out of my bag, it’s still silent and lacking any messages. Adam is still insisting on not calling, I’m thinking that maybe I should have given the local tall man another chance, even though I didn’t really like him and the thought of his bed gave me a slight feeling of disgust. At least I have the hotel’s address so I can return there easily, with the memory of a nice place where I spent the past evening.

  I wander over to the front door while surveying the third-floor apartment one last time. The two couples dancing slowly, each couple holding one another tightly, the couple standing near the kitchen counter, him caressing her breasts and her moaning, and the empty balcony visible through the open window, delivering an autumn breeze into the apartment. I spot the photographer and The Beauty together on a couch in the corner, half sitting, half lying down, this time on their own. The pack of groupies has dispersed, and The Beauty is celebrating her victory for tonight under the photographer’s caressing hands.

  A few steps, a little wave of the hand, a smile and an inaudible “thank you” while I make my way to the front door, The Beauty smiles at me and waves goodbye. A split second later she jumps up towards me, grabs my hand and pulls me over to where they’re sitting, “Come on, I’ll introduce you to him.”

  “You’re very pretty,” the photographer tells me as he stands up to shake my hand. The compliment makes me smile. I’m not really pretty, I’ll never be, but I always feel nice when I’m told I am. I definitely don’t come anywhere close to the beautiful woman at his side, or to the perfect models who cackled around him earlier. “Come here, join us, my Beauty told me about you,” he adds, and even though it’s already late and I don’t know if the offer is made out of politeness alone, I’m looking for excuses not to return to the hotel, so I sit with them.

  The Beauty situates herself comfortably on the couch while taking her shoes off and tossing them on the floor. She raises her legs onto the couch’s fabric, places her hand on the photographer’s shoulder, and gently caresses his neck with her fingers. The sleeve of her dress is pulled up a little bit and I notice a tattoo of a name written in a cursive font on her inner arm, I think she’s got the photographer’s name tattooed on her arm, but I’m not sure.

  “I heard you like to look in on parties from the street,” the photographer tells me.

  “Only when your Beauty sits next to me and keeps me company.”

  They both laugh and he places his hand on The Beauty’s thigh. His fingers slide a little bit upwards under her dress, becoming enveloped beneath the colorful fabric. He notices me looking, but he doesn’t seem to mind, The Beauty doesn’t seem to mind either, she places her arm around the back of his neck.

  “And what do you enjoy doing during your vacation?”

  Fight with my maybe-ex-husband, let him ruin our vacation, wander around aimlessly all day, crash strangers’ parties.

  “Walk around the streets a little bit, sit at cafés, a little bit of shopping, museums, all the same boring things that all tourists do during their vacations.”

  “You came to our party, so you’re already a little bit less of a tourist, you’re already a little bit more of a local.”

  Yes, and I also went to a cabaret show on my own which is definitely not something most tourists do, and I also heard a couple fucking in the ladies’ room which definitely makes me half local, and I almost threw a few brides off a bridge - brides who came here especially from faraway lands so they could get married in a romantic location - which is probably something that all locals do here at least once a week, and now that I’m noticing your fingers caressing The Beauty and noticing her enjoying it, I’m definitely a local.

  I keep my thoughts to myself but not my smile, so I smile to them in response.

  “You’re very pretty, have you ever been photographed?”

  I’m finding it difficult to deal with this sentence. On the one hand, it’s so banal and corny, and I’ve heard it so many times from so many men, men who obviously held cameras in their hands solely to get women like myself into bed, which makes me want to puke. On the other hand, according to the amount of models floating around him earlier, he seems to be a pretty famous photographer, or well-known, or something big in the industry. And there’s also The Beauty, who I’m fond of, and I don’t know how she feels about questions like that one and I’d like to know. I look at her in search of an answer, but she just smiles at me, either that or she’s getting pleasured by the photographer’s fingers hidden under her dress.

  “I don’t think I’m pretty,” I answer him while thinking about how strange this scenario is, though there’s something about it that I like.

  “You’re pretty, I think you’re pretty, I’d like to shoot you.”

  “And who do you usually shoot?” I divert the conversation away from the embarrassing subject of my prettiness.

  “I usually shoot people, strong and powerful photos,” he describes his photos by gesturing with his other hand. His way of expressing himself impresses me, he looks to me like someone who’s immersed in his own life, living in a parallel universe of fantasies and creativity. I’ve never been photographed like that and there’s something very flattering about it, but I don’t really suppose that he’s serious about me, especially considering he’s surrounded by much better options than me. I wonder what Adam would have to say about all this, I also wonder why he hasn’t looked for me yet, he probably wrote that whore from his work that his wife left him and so could she just pop by for a little bit of comfort, she better not.

  “I’ve never been photographed like that,
by a professional photographer, I imagine it’s very embarrassing.”

  “Of course it’s embarrassing, that’s what I look for in my photography, the embarrassment, the emotion, not the immaculate photo, but that moment expressed through the eyes. It’s not challenging to be a model who’s willing to do anything for success, the challenge is to find the emotion, the real people.”

  I’m trying to think of the meaning of what he just said and I’m unsure, with the late hour and the alcohol that was consumed it’s a little bit difficult for me to understand precisely what he means. And what was that about willing to do anything?

  “The models, it’s their job,” he continues without my asking, “they’re great on camera, I get paid for it, they get paid for it, it gets published later, the photos are perfect. But, you see, people who don’t do it as a job are the best subjects to shoot in my opinion, because they bring their own uniqueness to it.” He’s speaking solely to me, looking into my eyes the way he did the entire evening to the pack of hotties who surrounded him, and I feel like I’m becoming a part of his fan club. I don’t think he’s actually trying to impress me, I feel like he’s blasé to the women who meander around him, giving little or no importance to whether they desire him or not. “It’s not really difficult to trick someone like me,” I advocate myself, what’s someone like me added to his collection going to do for him? There’s just the small matter of The Beauty at his side, as well as the small matter of my marriage, to the one who really should just call and apologize already, or drop dead.