A Second Chance in Paris

by Ziv Amit

  “Do you think he wanted to tell you that he’s leaving?” I think that’s what he wanted to say. Maybe he actually wanted to tell me that he loves me and misses me? Really? After three days of not hearing from him? Suddenly he remembers? Don’t be so naïve, he probably wanted to break up with me. Why did he pack his little trolley? To stay? It doesn’t make sense for someone to pack a suitcase in order to stay. I need to concentrate on the stations so that I don’t miss my stop, two more left.

  Did he really want to apologize? It’s a nice thought but it doesn’t sit well with the facts and the lack of attention. One more stop and I’ll get off, I think I’ve made enough of an effort to try and fix things, I’ll think about this tomorrow, I have all of tomorrow for dealing with these thoughts. This is my stop, I need to get off now and look for the right exit, don’t want to go in the wrong direction. Who did he get that book for?

  Paris 8th Arrondissement, The Apartment

  Kate

  This looks like the right building, my palms are sweaty, probably because of the walk here, wipe them on something. A large green door with a number written over it in a rounded fashion. I glance at my black device to check the time, it’s silent as usual. I’m a few minutes early, should I go in? I’ll take a little stroll around the block, walk up to the street corner and back.

  Walk slowly, regulate your breaths, you can’t show up there all sweaty, don’t want them thinking I ran all the way over here. I feel the black dress tight against my body, the stiff fabric rustles with each step I take, blending in with the sound of my heels clicking on the stone pavement. A little street, not very long, a local café at the end of it, I could stand there for a few minutes and look inside, or look over at the Eiffel Tower which is glimmering at me, I’ve still got time. Don’t think about The Tall One and the book he was holding, check the time, I can start walking back, but slowly. I’m excited.

  There, this is the entrance, check the door code that The Beauty sent you, 5546 star. Your red nails look beautiful against the number pad, the red looks almost black in the dark. Buzz, it’s the right door, I don’t have the wrong address. Where’s the light for the stairwell? Third floor, brown door on the right, that’s what she wrote me, stairs are on the right, I feel my heart pounding.

  Your heels are making so much noise on the stairs, take quieter steps, it’s not nice, and what if the neighbors hear you? Do you think their neighbors care? They probably know that he takes photos of women like me in high heels. The main thing is that you walk up these wooden stairs quietly.

  This is the door, the brown one on the right, take a deep breath, what time is it? Calm down, everything’s alright, you’re at the right door at the right time and you’re precisely at the right place for you.

  My finger with the black lettering and the red nail is on the doorbell but I’m not thinking about it, I’m thinking about my heartbeat. I press it.

  I wait for a few seconds, hearing the sound of my heart, the sound that the black dress is making as I move around in anticipation, the sound of steps on the other side of the door.

  “Good evening,” the photographer opens the door with a smile and hugs me politely, I smile back and hug him quickly. “Is my lipstick alright?” I ask myself, “I haven’t smudged it?” I should have checked it before when I was still in the hallway.

  “Come in.” I follow him into the decorated living room space, light gray walls with large windows facing the now dark inner courtyard, cream-colored curtains hanging from the ceiling.

  “Would you like to take your coat off?” he asks. I smile at him shyly, place my bags on the floor, take my coat off and hand it to him. He goes over to the entrance and hangs it up.

  “Please, sit down,” he points at the brown leather furniture. Two sofas facing each other and a modern-looking glass table between them. There are a few photography and design books on the table, one of them is open, presenting me with shiny black-and-white fashion photos.

  I sit straight-backed on the edge of one of the sofas, my eyes searching for The Beauty.

  “She’ll probably appear down the hall soon,” I think to myself and try to calm down.

  “Make yourself comfortable, I’ll be right back,” the photographer says and disappears, I think he went to the kitchen. Where’s his studio? Probably in another room.

  I sit anxiously on the edge of the sofa, looking around, scanning the room, examining the hem of my dress and my boots against the deep red Afghan carpet, trying to adjust to it all. Calm down, everything is fine, you can feel comfortable and lean back.

  “Would you like some wine?” the photographer approaches me holding a bottle and two glasses. “I’m sorry,” he says, “But The Beauty just told me she won’t be able to make it tonight, she asked me to tell you she’s sorry.”

  I smile at him with embarrassment and think about The Beauty and our conversations, wondering where she’s disappeared to and where she is now.

  “Shall we begin?” The Photographer asks me and I look away towards the open photography book on the table, staring at a photo of a model looking back at me indifferently from the glossy paper. I need to make a decision.

  Alexandre III Bridge, Evening

  Kate

  I walk across the bridge slowly, ignoring the raindrops which have just started descending, thinking about the past evening and this whole vacation, looking at an embraced couple who are tightly holding one another. They’re ignoring the rain and the few passers-by who are on their way home, they’re only engaged in themselves and in their enveloping hug, as though they were in their own world.

  Despite the rain, as I pass by them I slow down a bit and look at them enviously, thinking that maybe that’s what we all want, that same lover who will run to us on a rainy bridge and embrace us, making us believe that love can survive and that the ending can be good, but I’m beginning to wonder whether that ending only exists in movies, and whether I should live in the world of reality. The rain gets stronger and I walk away from the embracing couple and from the bridge, careful not to slip over the wet pavement stones, thinking that my reality is an entire vacation without a single kiss. I still have a few more hours until the flight back, I need to get to the hotel and start packing.

  Day Five

  Hotel, Room 314, after Midnight

  Adam

  I put the key-card in and worriedly open the door, I’m tired, I’m wet from the rain and I think I’ve run out of time for searches. All those hours of wandering through the city looking for her, unable to think of anywhere specific, passing through cafés and bars and clubs, going in and coming back out and ignoring the rain.

  The room is lit and I see The little One in the corner, leaning over her open suitcase, packing her clothes. When she notices me she stops and straightens up, looking at me, expecting me to say something.

  I slowly approach her, feeling my legs becoming heavier with each excited and fearful step, searching for the right words to tell her, hoping so badly that she’ll listen to me, that it’s not too late.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I’m so sorry about this vacation and about how I acted during it, I’m sorry I didn’t forgive you when you wanted to reconcile and I’m even more sorry for having hurt you, I’m sorry I let you leave, and most of all, I’m sorry that it took me three days to find you.”

  “You know,” she looks at me and speaks after a few seconds, as though she’s considering my words and wondering what to say. “A person can walk down the street and come across promises of a better future, and those promises are beautiful and shiny and exciting and they sparkle like a new book.”

  I notice the shiny black dress tossed on the floor at the entrance to the bathroom and I suddenly feel the weight of the book in my hand, as though it belongs in the past and isn’t right for us anymore, as though I’ve missed my chance.

  “And that person needs to decide,” she continues,
“whether to stay and cope with life, or whether to get up and follow those promises of a better future.”

  I want to hide the book behind my back, but she notices it and approaches me, reaching her hand out, and I have no choice but to give it to her, covered in green wrapping paper with yellow flowers, seeming so plain and pathetic to me.

  “But what then?” She continues talking while turning her gaze to the book, gently unravelling the wrapping paper and leafing through it. “Do new places not have humiliations and betrayals and tears and heartaches?” and she smiles at the sight of the flower-petals dropping from between the pages and onto the bed.

  “And I have made a decision,” she speaks slowly, choosing her words carefully and taking another step towards me, I can smell her perfume.

  “Let’s go look for a café, see if anything’s still open.” She’s really close to me now and I don’t want to deliberate anymore. I lean towards her lips and kiss her, gently at first and then more firmly, enveloping her in my arms and pressing her against me, feeling her body heat and her hands caressing my neck, hesitantly at first, and then assertively, and we kiss more and more.

  In the hallway, on the way to the elevator, she gives me her hand and says with a smile, “I chose you, my Tall One, you and your flower-petal books.”

  About the Author

  After having published several poems and short stories touching upon the subject of love, Ziv Amit publishes his first novel—The Bridge to me.

  Ziv is the father of two adolescents and an apprehensive female dog. Before becoming a novelist, he worked in graphic design and computer programming, although his favorite profession is writing to which he devotes most of his time.

  Today he is busy working on his second novel soon to be published. We invite you to visit his website: http://www.zivamit.com where you will be able to register and receive an email update once the book is published, or to follow him on Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/authorzivamit/.

  Message to the Readers

  When I first started work on this book, I wanted to write about ordinary people, people who experience feelings of love, jealousy, and anger, people who sometimes misinterpret situations, people who must decide whether to fight for their relationships and to what extent. I wrote about their thoughts, emotions, actions, and flaws, all those attributes which make individuals so interesting and special, at least in my eyes.

  I wrote a book about love, about the crises it creates, and about the belief that if only we were willing to admit our mistakes and forgive the mistakes of others, we would also be able to make amends.