A Second Chance in Paris

by Ziv Amit

  What is she even doing with him? Why doesn’t she just up and leave him? He’s definitely good for a night or two, but to share a life with? I have so many questions for her, but they remain fixed at the tip of my tongue, not venturing beyond. “And that’s where they’ll stay,” I clarify to myself, in the meantime I’m enjoying her company, that’s enough, I also have shoes to purchase.

  “I can’t stand on these things,” I think to myself as I try to step on the high heels I’m wearing, this is not what I had in mind when I thought about going shoe shopping with her.

  We had been walking along the street and checking out shops when she suddenly stopped in front of a fancy shop which sells party shoes and looked at the window display.

  “Let’s go in,” she told me and I followed her, assuming she wanted to try something on for herself.

  “What do you think?” she pointed at a shiny black pair of needle-thin high heels, they had a thick ankle strap made of leather and a big silver buckle.

  “Very nice,” I answered her.

  “They’re also really high, I don’t think you could actually survive a whole night of walking in them without crying,” I thought to myself but didn’t say it out loud.

  “What size are you?” she asked, I didn’t really understand why.

  “Size 6,” I answered her, that’s what it’s like for little women, little shoe sizes.

  She spoke to the saleswoman and we sat on a leather sofa, waiting for the saleswoman to bring her the shoes, but I started thinking that maybe I didn’t totally understand what was happening.

  “Who are those shoes for?” I asked The Beauty.

  “You,” she answered decisively.

  “They’re beautiful, but they’re not my style,” I smiled at her.

  “And which shoes will you be using for your photoshoot today?” she asked.

  I’ll admit, I hadn’t really thought of that. Last night I thought about how my breasts are going to look at the shoot and how much I’ll be willing to reveal them, I thought about the black dress which seemed very sexy and enticing, about whether he’ll want to fuck me and about what role The Beauty is playing in this whole scenario. But I hadn’t thought about shoes. “You forgot about the shoes,” I told myself off. What do the models who go to him for shoots do? I didn’t want to think about what the other models do, nor which shoes they have.

  I opened the pretty white box that The Beauty passed over to me from the saleswoman’s hands, I carefully held the shoe, feeling the thin long heel with my finger, the shoe was beautiful but it was stressing me out, I felt like I was on a train which was taking me on an unclear route and I wasn’t entirely sure I’d be able to stop if I so desired. The direction was exciting and intriguing, but I wasn’t certain it suited me.

  “I’m not sure,” I thought to myself silently, looking at The Beauty with a look of uncertainty as I continued to caress the high heel, feeling the narrow edge with the tips of my fingers.

  “Do you want us to choose something simpler for you?” she looked at me with curiosity.

  “I don’t know.” I gave her a deliberating look, I wanted tonight’s shoot to be a special experience for me, a one-time occurrence, and I wasn’t going to ruin that with inappropriate shoes. I’ve ruined so many things recently, she couldn’t even imagine how many, I didn’t want to ruin any more.

  “Wait a minute,” she told me and turned to the saleswoman, telling her something while pointing at the shoes I was holding. The saleswoman smiled, nodded her head and walked off to the back of the shop.

  We waited silently for a moment, I concentrated on the shoe I was holding and she smiled at me and placed her hand on mine, as though she was calming me down.

  The saleswoman returned and gave her a white box, she opened it with a smile. “Excellent,” The Beauty said. I looked in the box and saw a pair of shoes which were identical to the impossible heels I was holding.

  “Let’s try them on,” she said with a smile, taking her shoes off and arching her foot to fit into the black shoe in her hand.

  I smiled at her and tightly arched my foot, shoved it into the shoe and buckled the thick ankle strap.

  I’m walking on them very carefully towards the mirror, directing my steps and trying to get used to this height. I feel my chest stretching forward and my breasts sticking out, as if inviting the right set of hands to come and get them. “You’re definitely putting out a clear signal here,” I tell myself quietly, arranging my dress nicely over my breasts.

  The Beauty walks over to the mirror and stands next to me, I think she’s used to these types of heels, she’s walking with an enviable ease. “She’s probably in constant competition with all of his models, she has to be able to walk on such high heels,” I think to myself as I look at her beautiful legs. I feel sad for her, for the endless competition she’s in.

  “What do you think?” she asks me excitedly, checking us out from all angles.

  “They’re beautiful,” I admit to her, “very beautiful.” They’re not what I thought I’d be purchasing today, but suddenly I envision myself standing in front of the photographer with these crazy shoes on, and I just know I’m going to look wonderful. My imagination is full of thoughts and ideas, and all the fears are currently hiding away in a corner.

  I stay standing motionless, looking at us in the mirror, standing close to each other, almost touching. We’re wearing autumn dresses with matching shoes and gorgeous legs and I like what I see. We both smile to the mirror.

  “If I get these shoes, you’re going to have to get them too,” I tell The Beauty with a smile.

  More Streets and More Shops

  Kate

  “What do you think? Should we get these too?” I ask The Beauty as I stroll back and forth through the shop and stand in front of the mirror with an examining look, they’re pretty and flat and black and comfortable and they suit me. We’ve been going around different shops, looking for new walking shoes for me.

  “They’re pretty,” she smiles at me approvingly and I smile back. “We’ll get them,” she tells me without letting me make the final decision and she turns to the saleswoman, pointing and explaining as I get my wallet out to pay. “Do you want to keep them on?” she asks me, and even though I hadn’t thought of it before, it seems like a good idea to me, I’m sick and tired of my shoes and the pain they’ve been inflicting upon me, they were much more comfy back home, but on the paved streets of this city they’re really torturous.

  The Beauty tells the saleswoman something and I hand her my old shoes so she can throw them away, I silently say goodbye to them, but the saleswoman puts my old shoes in a new box and hands it to me, I’m embarrassed and I don’t understand what’s happening, I take the box and pay her.

  “Why did she give me my old shoes back?” I ask The Beauty as we leave the shop and return to the street.

  “Because I told her we want to donate your old shoes,” she explains.

  “We want to donate them?” I ask with happiness in my heart.

  “Of course not,” she answers me, “They’re old and uncomfortable, they should be thrown away,” she smiles at me.

  “So what then?” I don’t entirely understand her intention.

  “I know exactly where we’re going to throw them away,” she smiles and takes me by the hand.

  The Bridge, before Noon

  Kate

  “You’re not really planning on throwing them away here,” I tell her with genuine concern, imagining my final vacation day being spent in jail for having thrown items into the river, or even just getting a fine from an angry cop.

  “Of course I am,” she answers me with a mischievous smile, “This is precisely the right place for getting rid of anything unnecessary,” she laughs.

  We’re standing in the middle of the bridge, leaning on the white marble rails and looking at the greeni
sh water flowing serenely beneath us.

  “We shouldn’t do it, we’ll be seen,” I continue with my concerns.

  “Who’s going to see us?” The Beauty retorts.

  I look around, the bridge is packed full of tourists with cameras, pedestrians, and a few couples taking photos of themselves, I’m trying to understand if she’s serious and is trying to test my limits or if she’s just joking.

  “There are hardly any people here,” I answer her and laugh, pointing at the crowd surrounding us.

  “So what?” she replies and gets closer to me, “they’ll think we’re special.”

  “We’re special as it is,” I laugh back, “even without tossing old shoes into a river.”

  “Then what should we do with them? We have to get rid of them,” she insists and I think to myself that I really like her, I’d love to have a friend like her.

  She takes a moment to think and then grabs my hand and we walk across the bridge with light footsteps, passing the tourists and cameras by, we reach the end of the bridge and go down the stairs that lead to the riverbank.

  I feel a lot braver under the bridge, there are no people on the riverbank, except for a tourist boat which is sailing in the distance. I can hear the noise of the cars crossing the bridge over us, lightly shaking the metal support beams.

  “Come on,” The Beauty urges me with excitement and I pull out the old shoes from the box and quickly toss them, rushing so that I don’t change my mind, hoping no one can see me, I don’t want to be that tourist who ended up spending the night in jail. If I had expected some feeling of relief I’d be disappointed right now, I don’t feel anything, it’s only The Beauty’s clapping and shouts of “Bravo” that make me smile and feel a little bit more like I’m special.

  “You did it,” she smiles at me as we climb up the stairs back to the bridge, “You got rid of your past.” And I smile at her and think to myself that these sentences are nice, but they’re actually making me think about The Tall One and why he still hasn’t called me and where did he sleep last night.

  “I hate them,” she suddenly says. We’re sitting on the white marble stairs on the side of the bridge, enjoying the autumn sun and I think I know who she’s talking about, but I don’t ask her.

  “It’s a shame you left last night,” she continues and I stay silent and listen to her.

  “I wanted you to stay with me for a little bit longer.” I’m sorry I left, even though I was really tired.

  “It’s a shame that I left.”

  “We go to those clubs and then they show up, wanting to meet him because he’s considered famous and he can advance their careers and I hate it.” She takes out a cigarette and offers me one. I turn her down with a smile of gratitude and she lights one up for herself, stays silent for a moment, playing with the smoke.

  “They come over to sit with us at parties and events, they join us and they wear tiny miniskirts and no underwear, they sit in front of him with their legs open, showing him what they have to give him in return,” she continues and I gently place my hand on her arm.

  “They ignore me, as if I don’t even exist. And the worst thing is that when he sees them and their open legs, he ignores me too.” I notice a tear running down her cheek.

  “And I have to remain at the parties with him, I have to dress nicely and smile with perfect teeth and perfect lipstick, look away as he turns his back to me and busies himself with impressing some new young girl with beautiful words about art.” More tears start running down The Beauty’s cheeks and I feel like I want to cry for her too. I gently take the cigarette from her hand, I take one drag from it, let the smoke blend through my mouth and I give her back the cigarette, placing it between her fingers.

  I’m looking for something I can say that would cheer her up and I can’t think of anything, I want to tell her that she doesn’t have to stay with him, that she can get up and walk away, that she’ll be better off without him. But that’s condescending, I don’t really know her, I don’t have the right to advise her on these matters, all I can do is be there for her right now.

  “Yesterday, after you left, he didn’t pay any attention to me at all,” she says while crying and I sit closer to her and hug her.

  “He talked to them and then he danced with them and I just sat and smiled, just like that, smiled to myself like an idiot.” I hug her tighter and place my head on her shoulder.

  “I wish I had stayed,” I whisper to her and gently caress her hair.

  “We would have smiled at each other,” she laughs with tearful eyes and then wipes them.

  “He’s not a bad person, but he only thinks about himself and his photography and his freedom,” she says and I want to scream at her to leave him, but I hug her instead.

  “And everyone wants to sleep with him, they do it happily, they see it as part of the fun, part of the experience. Then they continue on to their next adventure and I’m the only one who stays in the same place, unable to make any changes.” I feel ashamed for being one of those women.

  “And what about me?” I ask her, scared of her answer.

  “And I know I need to make changes, but I don’t have the strength to do it,” she continues, ignoring my question.

  “And what about me?” I ask again, feeling even more scared.

  She takes a drag from the cigarette, looks at me and smiles, “I like you, I want you to be photographed by him, I want to give you that gift, he’s an excellent photographer, it really is quite an experience.” I look at her, hoping she means what she says, I think she does.

  “Them, I hate,” she clarifies.

  “Maybe we can be photographed together,” I offer her, feeling a little bit more confident.

  “Maybe, if it’s appropriate,” she answers and gives me a little smile, and I’m not sure if she means it or if she has other plans in mind.

  “We already have matching shoes,” I point to our shopping bags and we look at each other and laugh a bit through the tears.

  We sit silently for a while, looking at the passers-by who are crossing the bridge, some of whom stop to look at the water or to take photos, and I gently caress her arm.

  “He knows how to listen to me, look into my eyes, look into my very soul, so that I feel like he cares only for me.” I listen to her and feel like she’s trying to explain to me, or to herself, why she hasn’t left him yet.

  “And then suddenly he doesn’t care about me and he goes with someone else and I break down.” I feel her body beginning to cry again.

  “When he wrote his name on my arm I felt like the most special woman in the world,” she says and my hand, which has been caressing her arm, freezes in its place.

  “Of all the gorgeous girls that surrounded him, I was the one that he chose. And I was so proud of us that I went and got it tattooed,” she wipes her eyes with her inner arm and the tattoo of his name.

  “And then, a while later, I realized that this is his beloved signature, which he signs on all the women he shoots, it’s his trademark.” She cries again and I hug her, feeling a stinging sensation on my inner arm, where his writing is, as if I have a burn on the place where he had put his name.

  “You know, that’s his unique stamp, just like he wanted, everyone who follows his photography always looks for the signature, trying to find it on the model’s body, her hand, her leg, her throat, neck, breasts, all sorts of places.” Now I really want to scrub his trademark off of me, erase it as though it had never even been there.

  “And every time I look at photos he’s taken of someone else I think to myself, where am I going to discover his signature on her this time?” I want to tell her something comforting and I can’t find the words.

  “I know you have one,” she smiles at me through her tears, “I have one too, and mine can’t come off in the shower.” I smile back to her with gratitude.

  �
�It’s not simple, being a famous photographer’s girlfriend,” she sums everything up with a smile.

  “Don’t remove his signature,” she tells me as our silence lengthens.

  “I feel uncomfortable,” I answer her honestly.

  “I want you to come over,” she insists and puts her arm around me.

  “I prefer for him to be with you, someone that I like, than with the others, whom I hate,” she says and it’s not clear to me if it’s the shoot she’s referring to. Should I ask her?

  I’m trying to think of something that would make her feel good, something that would make me feel good, I want her to know that I don’t want to hurt her.

  “Then you should sign your name on me too,” I say. She looks at me, not quite understanding what I mean.

  “So that I’m marked by you as well,” I try to word the idea that I’m slowly constructing, “so that you too will have a signature that can be visible during the shoot, not just him, you’ll belong there too,” I smile at her and give her my other hand.

  “You want me to mark you too?” she takes my hand and asks, trying to clarify.

  “Yes,” I answer her excitedly, “That way, every time you’ll look at my photos, you’ll search for your signature instead of his, and you’ll remember me with a smile, not like all the others,” I conclude my idea.

  She thinks for a moment about what I’ve suggested, she seems to like the idea.