Freezing on the quai, Rachel wrapped her arms around her goose bump-freckled body, teeth chattering along with the flowing white noise of the Rhône’s chilly waters on this late winter morning. Lights sparkle off the water’s chilly peaks, rocking the barge bars dotted along the shore, beckoning patrons to come play on the swaying boats bursting with loud techno and tipsy dancing.
“God damnit, I knew I should have worn a longer dress,” Rachel thought to herself, trying to revitalize warmth into her body, pulling down her dress a little longer than it will allow.
Dazzling in a skin tight silky strapless and backless black dress, she lightly tucks back a wisp of curled blonde hair behind her ear. Her cheek is smudged with black eyeliner from the elbow-to-elbow contact two-story barges allow when filled with hundreds of dancing bodies. But when the faint moonlight peaks out from behind its low cloud layer, nightlight hits her face in that certain way that makes her look irresistible. Like a heavenly body descended down to Earth for only one night, gracing the world with its presence. A mere dream in a world filled with intoxicated, chaotic and noisy beings unworthy of such a sight.
After checking her wristwatch to reveal that it is past 2 a.m., she fumbles with her clutch purse searching for cigarettes. However badly she packed her match-book sized clutch while inebriated earlier this evening has come back to haunt her in a much less sobered state. Snaking a slender index finger in past the bulging zipper, she makes contact with her treasured cigarette, and continues laboring to pull it out.
Watching from afar, a sinfully handsome young man stands on the steps down to the quai, licking his lips. Dressed in a thick wool business suit, complete with over jacket, he locks eyes with her, waving a stainless steel lighter in air.
“Vous le voulez, mademoiselle?”
You know you want it, he corrects his speech in the informal. Cocking one dark brown eyebrow up in irony, hoping she catches his meaning.
* * * * *
Squishing up against the mirror at the powder room of the second story flat, a group of giggling French girls and one American dream up plans for the night.
“We could go down to the quai and dance on one of the barges,” Rachel suggests, hoping to meet up with Philippe.
“How cute, she thinks we don’t know she wants to bump into you-know-who,” Aurélie teases, ticking Rachel’s sides.
Trying not to laugh while ostentatiously pulling up her eyelid to slather on a thick layer of dark black liquid eyeliner, Rachel holds back a smile, “Well, you know, we had so much fun the last time we were there. Who knows what the night has in store for us?”
“Dépêchez-vous, hurry up, I need to use the mirror,” pleads Ada. “I don’t care where we go, who we run into, or when, I just want to have some wine and then dance!”
This causes Aurélie to squeal with glee, running to her iHome to blast the radio and pop open a bottle of champagne brut. Moments before grabbing three flutes, she wanders out to the balcony and fumbles with the cork. After loosening it out of its frosty glass prison, that familiar blasting sound of air, bubbles and foam fills the air, and the rest of the apartment. Like animals called out for feeding, the other two women scramble out to the balcony and greedily grab for their flutes, abuzz with gossip, random outbursts into song and genuine laughter.
After splitting the bottle of liquid gold three ways, Rachel puts on her sharpest pair of heels and reaches for a coat.
“Monstrosity,” Ada scowls.
“What? It’s like 30 degrees out there?”
To which a giggling Ada replies, “God you’re so American, Rachelle. How long is it going to take you to get used to our measuring system? Besides, there are so many bodies in those barges that your coat will either smell of smoke and sweat in an instant, or you’ll forget it. It’s not like we’re going to be out of the cab for more than five seconds anyways.”
And with that, the two typically rail thin French brunettes and curvy blonde made their way down into the lobby to meet their chauffeur who was just about to go on to the next call after waiting patiently downstairs for nearly twenty minutes. Laughing secretly to himself, he upped the tab an extra ten Euros and set them out on their adventures of the night.
* * * * *
Three hours later, Rachel stood alone on the quai after she spotted Philippe and told her friends to make their way home without her. After mustering up the courage to make small chat and show him that she was interested, she noticed him chatting up a tall, smartly dressed Italian. Whispering in her ear, the two of them quickly made their exit, pushing past Rachel who was left hanging and ready to initiate conversation. Instead, her minced words lay hanging in her head, unable put into words her thoughts. Hurt and alone, she sulked outside to the once grassy patch that lined the street of bars. In the winter, it was nothing more than an icy muddy patch of lifeless vegetation. Sinking in the mud, she wiped a tear softly out of the corner of her eye and then tried to banish any further thoughts of Philippe. He seemed so cultured, interesting and intelligent before, it hardly seems true to his character to chase after a woman he had briefly met in a bar, who was never going to amount to anything.
Guess it’s true what they say about Frenchmen, she thought to herself. Sniffling, Rachel was brought back to the present winter blanket that icily wrapped its sides closely around her bare body.
When she finally found that cigarette, see noticed a strangely familiar and handsome man standing in front of her and up the stairs several steps.
“I don’t mean to be rude or forceful, but you looked like you needed this,” he said, making his way down the stairs. Arm stretched out at a respectful distance, he flipped open the lighter one-handedly and offered the gift of fire.
“Thank you,” she replied, cigarette pressed lightly between her lips, apprehensive to come any closer. Exhaling the billowing smoke and nicotine buzz quickly put Rachel at ease. She no longer seemed cold and alone in a foreign country she was momentarily calling home.
After exchanging pleasantries, she agreed to let him escort her down the road a ways.
Micah, it turns out, was also an immigrant to France, who had permanently made the move from Israel as a young age. Like a true gentleman, he immediately offered her his overcoat and as they walked together slowly down the cobblestone road, tried to inch closer allowing his arm to graze her shoulder and offer a moment of warmth.
Smiling, she appreciated the gesture even though it backfired and sent chills up and down her spine. For once, after months of dreaming of a French fling, Rachel finally felt like a moment in a fairytale. Gazing at the lit windows, still ablaze from the Fête des Lumières Rachel couldn’t imagine a more perfect evening. Each day she was falling more and more in love with this picturesque city, its old town charm and window into history.
“If you’d like, I know of a little café run by some friends from home that stays open very late,” he offered.
“Yes, that’d be nice. I’d like that,” Rachel felt insane grinning as wildly as she’d been since he offered to escort her through the streets.
Delving deeper into the row of bars and clubs, one door looked strikingly dissimilar to all the others and was littered with Arabic symbols Rachel could not discern. Opening the heavy gilded front door, she was immediately taken back to her exploits in Turkey; thick plumes of fruity scented hookah invaded her nostrils as the brief humidity invited her in farther after wandering the mist-filled chilly streets for the better part of the last hour. Loudly playing over the speakers rigged to the ceiling were the faint sounds of tiny cymbals crashing together, heavy drums and tinny sounding flutes and fiddles cacophonically struggling together to meld into a strange foreign rhythm that was quizzically pleasing.
Fearlessly, Micah delicately grabbed her hand and took her to a dark-lit corner of the café next to the service bar and plopped down on a velvety divan piped with gold ribbons and tassels. He seemed to grow more comfortable, as if he was back in his element, making small talk in what she assumed to be Hebrew and not Arabic with a member of the wait staff. Nodding towards Rachel, Micah gestured for drinks to be brought to the table. Hoping for alcohol, Rachel was instead met with a strange blend of tisanes in tall, skinny ornate glass cups.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Heaven,” he mischievously replied, eyebrow cocked with playfulness once more.
Upon first sip, Rachel knew there had to be some alcoholic element to this beverage. By the third, fourth and fifth sips, she could not get enough and felt like this Middle Eastern warm beverage was the solution to all that is wrong in the world. Surely there would be no wars if everyone on the world held a glass of this magical beverage high in the air, tapped glasses and then reveled in its delight.
Several hours later, guests trickled out of the café and back to their homes at about the same rate as the empty glasses piling up on the table before Micah and Rachel. Pushing aside the used-up hookah, Micah offered his date a bountiful plate of Tunisian pastries, made in house from ingredients exported from someone’s home back in Africa. Again, she was filled with wonder and delight at all the treats sinfully being placed upon her tongue this evening.
Maybe it was all the wine from earlier, or the spiked tea, or the fact that she shamelessly thought she was actually falling for this man, but Rachel ached to ask him to take her some place more intimate and quiet.
As if reading her mind he implored, “Seeing as how it’s almost the morning, may I take you back to your place?”
“I’m staying with some friends for the weekend since I’m living in Grenoble for the time being.”
“Very well. I’m staying at a hotel,” his voice trailed off.
“Would you mind taking me there?” Rachel tried not to sound desperate. “I just would like a quiet night of sleep and I’m not ready to stumble back into their apartment and face the inquisition just yet.”
“As mademoiselle wishes,” twisting his lips into a smile, he called a cab to the restaurant and ordered another round while waiting for the ride.
* * * * *
Once they had reached their destination, Rachel marched up to the front desk intent on paying for her own room for the night. Before she could get there, Micah intercepted her and tried to talk her out of it.
“Chérie, don’t be silly. Why be wasteful when I have a couch in my room? I’ll stay there and you can have my luxurious bed.”
“Oh, no I couldn’t,” she tried but didn’t have the heart to put up a fight with this charmingly handsome man.
Walking behind him, she timidly slipped her hand under his, and to Micah’s delight he pulled her closer wrapping his arms around her slender frame.
Chattering endlessly down the hall to the room, Rachel really did feel like she was falling for this man. Her common sense had always told her it was silly to feel that way with another person in such a short period of time, but her heart told her that this is how all good stories start. Love can be sparked, it doesn’t have to be stoked into a great fire over time.
Entering the room, she couldn’t help but notice how neat and clean he kept this room. Unsure of how long he’d actually been staying there, happy thoughts fluttered inside of her. Appreciation for a neat, clean man was not lost on her. In fact, it drew Rachel closer.
Instead of staying on the bed, the two plopped on the couch and opened a bottle of Côtes du Rhône from the minibar. They lie in each other’s arms talking until the sun came up. Rachel poured out her soul and felt it’s match in his. Seizing the twilight and the romantic scene that had passed between the two of them Micah boldly kissed her bottom lip gently, tasting the wine heavy on her breath. Surprised by his advance yet secretly hoping for it all morning long, Rachel gave in. Melting deeply into one another, Micah pressed her against his body, wrapper his arms protectively around her and carried her to the bed where the two shared what was left of the “night” together.
* * * * *
Rachel hastily awoke to the sounds of late-afternoon traffic bustling down several stories below her window. Although momentarily confused, she remembered the beyond wonderful evening she shared with such an amazing man. Feelings of infatuation, satisfaction and possibly even love all rose back up to the brim as she turned in bed to smother Micah in kisses.
Except, he was gone.
Nervously, Rachel scrambled to find her clothes. However, she was interrupted in her frantic thoughts of fear to a large wad of Euros neatly bound next to her on the bedside table. The only thing accompanying such a large sum was a note with X’s and O’s.
In an office building halfway on the other side of the city, Micah’s monotonously busy afternoon was momentarily interrupted by pleasant thoughts of his weekend. He prided himself on never asking for their names. By paying extra cash at the hotel desk, Micah checked out of the hotel room he’d broken into without a mess.
Shaking his head in disbelief, he scolded himself for wondering what his wife would think if she ever found out about his addiction to prostitutes and escorts.
“She won’t,” he chuckled to himself and returned to researching stocks on his computer screen.
“God damnit, I knew I should have worn a longer dress,” Rachel thought to herself, trying to revitalize warmth into her body, pulling down her dress a little longer than it will allow.
Dazzling in a skin tight silky strapless and backless black dress, she lightly tucks back a wisp of curled blonde hair behind her ear. Her cheek is smudged with black eyeliner from the elbow-to-elbow contact two-story barges allow when filled with hundreds of dancing bodies. But when the faint moonlight peaks out from behind its low cloud layer, nightlight hits her face in that certain way that makes her look irresistible. Like a heavenly body descended down to Earth for only one night, gracing the world with its presence. A mere dream in a world filled with intoxicated, chaotic and noisy beings unworthy of such a sight.
After checking her wristwatch to reveal that it is past 2 a.m., she fumbles with her clutch purse searching for cigarettes. However badly she packed her match-book sized clutch while inebriated earlier this evening has come back to haunt her in a much less sobered state. Snaking a slender index finger in past the bulging zipper, she makes contact with her treasured cigarette, and continues laboring to pull it out.
Watching from afar, a sinfully handsome young man stands on the steps down to the quai, licking his lips. Dressed in a thick wool business suit, complete with over jacket, he locks eyes with her, waving a stainless steel lighter in air.
“Vous le voulez, mademoiselle?”
You know you want it, he corrects his speech in the informal. Cocking one dark brown eyebrow up in irony, hoping she catches his meaning.
* * * * *
Squishing up against the mirror at the powder room of the second story flat, a group of giggling French girls and one American dream up plans for the night.
“We could go down to the quai and dance on one of the barges,” Rachel suggests, hoping to meet up with Philippe.
“How cute, she thinks we don’t know she wants to bump into you-know-who,” Aurélie teases, ticking Rachel’s sides.
Trying not to laugh while ostentatiously pulling up her eyelid to slather on a thick layer of dark black liquid eyeliner, Rachel holds back a smile, “Well, you know, we had so much fun the last time we were there. Who knows what the night has in store for us?”
“Dépêchez-vous, hurry up, I need to use the mirror,” pleads Ada. “I don’t care where we go, who we run into, or when, I just want to have some wine and then dance!”
This causes Aurélie to squeal with glee, running to her iHome to blast the radio and pop open a bottle of champagne brut. Moments before grabbing three flutes, she wanders out to the balcony and fumbles with the cork. After loosening it out of its frosty glass prison, that familiar blasting sound of air, bubbles and foam fills the air, and the rest of the apartment. Like animals called out for feeding, the other two women scramble out to the balcony and greedily grab for their flutes, abuzz with gossip, random outbursts into song and genuine laughter.
After splitting the bottle of liquid gold three ways, Rachel puts on her sharpest pair of heels and reaches for a coat.
“Monstrosity,” Ada scowls.
“What? It’s like 30 degrees out there?”
To which a giggling Ada replies, “God you’re so American, Rachelle. How long is it going to take you to get used to our measuring system? Besides, there are so many bodies in those barges that your coat will either smell of smoke and sweat in an instant, or you’ll forget it. It’s not like we’re going to be out of the cab for more than five seconds anyways.”
And with that, the two typically rail thin French brunettes and curvy blonde made their way down into the lobby to meet their chauffeur who was just about to go on to the next call after waiting patiently downstairs for nearly twenty minutes. Laughing secretly to himself, he upped the tab an extra ten Euros and set them out on their adventures of the night.
* * * * *
Three hours later, Rachel stood alone on the quai after she spotted Philippe and told her friends to make their way home without her. After mustering up the courage to make small chat and show him that she was interested, she noticed him chatting up a tall, smartly dressed Italian. Whispering in her ear, the two of them quickly made their exit, pushing past Rachel who was left hanging and ready to initiate conversation. Instead, her minced words lay hanging in her head, unable put into words her thoughts. Hurt and alone, she sulked outside to the once grassy patch that lined the street of bars. In the winter, it was nothing more than an icy muddy patch of lifeless vegetation. Sinking in the mud, she wiped a tear softly out of the corner of her eye and then tried to banish any further thoughts of Philippe. He seemed so cultured, interesting and intelligent before, it hardly seems true to his character to chase after a woman he had briefly met in a bar, who was never going to amount to anything.
Guess it’s true what they say about Frenchmen, she thought to herself. Sniffling, Rachel was brought back to the present winter blanket that icily wrapped its sides closely around her bare body.
When she finally found that cigarette, see noticed a strangely familiar and handsome man standing in front of her and up the stairs several steps.
“I don’t mean to be rude or forceful, but you looked like you needed this,” he said, making his way down the stairs. Arm stretched out at a respectful distance, he flipped open the lighter one-handedly and offered the gift of fire.
“Thank you,” she replied, cigarette pressed lightly between her lips, apprehensive to come any closer. Exhaling the billowing smoke and nicotine buzz quickly put Rachel at ease. She no longer seemed cold and alone in a foreign country she was momentarily calling home.
After exchanging pleasantries, she agreed to let him escort her down the road a ways.
Micah, it turns out, was also an immigrant to France, who had permanently made the move from Israel as a young age. Like a true gentleman, he immediately offered her his overcoat and as they walked together slowly down the cobblestone road, tried to inch closer allowing his arm to graze her shoulder and offer a moment of warmth.
Smiling, she appreciated the gesture even though it backfired and sent chills up and down her spine. For once, after months of dreaming of a French fling, Rachel finally felt like a moment in a fairytale. Gazing at the lit windows, still ablaze from the Fête des Lumières Rachel couldn’t imagine a more perfect evening. Each day she was falling more and more in love with this picturesque city, its old town charm and window into history.
“If you’d like, I know of a little café run by some friends from home that stays open very late,” he offered.
“Yes, that’d be nice. I’d like that,” Rachel felt insane grinning as wildly as she’d been since he offered to escort her through the streets.
Delving deeper into the row of bars and clubs, one door looked strikingly dissimilar to all the others and was littered with Arabic symbols Rachel could not discern. Opening the heavy gilded front door, she was immediately taken back to her exploits in Turkey; thick plumes of fruity scented hookah invaded her nostrils as the brief humidity invited her in farther after wandering the mist-filled chilly streets for the better part of the last hour. Loudly playing over the speakers rigged to the ceiling were the faint sounds of tiny cymbals crashing together, heavy drums and tinny sounding flutes and fiddles cacophonically struggling together to meld into a strange foreign rhythm that was quizzically pleasing.
Fearlessly, Micah delicately grabbed her hand and took her to a dark-lit corner of the café next to the service bar and plopped down on a velvety divan piped with gold ribbons and tassels. He seemed to grow more comfortable, as if he was back in his element, making small talk in what she assumed to be Hebrew and not Arabic with a member of the wait staff. Nodding towards Rachel, Micah gestured for drinks to be brought to the table. Hoping for alcohol, Rachel was instead met with a strange blend of tisanes in tall, skinny ornate glass cups.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Heaven,” he mischievously replied, eyebrow cocked with playfulness once more.
Upon first sip, Rachel knew there had to be some alcoholic element to this beverage. By the third, fourth and fifth sips, she could not get enough and felt like this Middle Eastern warm beverage was the solution to all that is wrong in the world. Surely there would be no wars if everyone on the world held a glass of this magical beverage high in the air, tapped glasses and then reveled in its delight.
Several hours later, guests trickled out of the café and back to their homes at about the same rate as the empty glasses piling up on the table before Micah and Rachel. Pushing aside the used-up hookah, Micah offered his date a bountiful plate of Tunisian pastries, made in house from ingredients exported from someone’s home back in Africa. Again, she was filled with wonder and delight at all the treats sinfully being placed upon her tongue this evening.
Maybe it was all the wine from earlier, or the spiked tea, or the fact that she shamelessly thought she was actually falling for this man, but Rachel ached to ask him to take her some place more intimate and quiet.
As if reading her mind he implored, “Seeing as how it’s almost the morning, may I take you back to your place?”
“I’m staying with some friends for the weekend since I’m living in Grenoble for the time being.”
“Very well. I’m staying at a hotel,” his voice trailed off.
“Would you mind taking me there?” Rachel tried not to sound desperate. “I just would like a quiet night of sleep and I’m not ready to stumble back into their apartment and face the inquisition just yet.”
“As mademoiselle wishes,” twisting his lips into a smile, he called a cab to the restaurant and ordered another round while waiting for the ride.
* * * * *
Once they had reached their destination, Rachel marched up to the front desk intent on paying for her own room for the night. Before she could get there, Micah intercepted her and tried to talk her out of it.
“Chérie, don’t be silly. Why be wasteful when I have a couch in my room? I’ll stay there and you can have my luxurious bed.”
“Oh, no I couldn’t,” she tried but didn’t have the heart to put up a fight with this charmingly handsome man.
Walking behind him, she timidly slipped her hand under his, and to Micah’s delight he pulled her closer wrapping his arms around her slender frame.
Chattering endlessly down the hall to the room, Rachel really did feel like she was falling for this man. Her common sense had always told her it was silly to feel that way with another person in such a short period of time, but her heart told her that this is how all good stories start. Love can be sparked, it doesn’t have to be stoked into a great fire over time.
Entering the room, she couldn’t help but notice how neat and clean he kept this room. Unsure of how long he’d actually been staying there, happy thoughts fluttered inside of her. Appreciation for a neat, clean man was not lost on her. In fact, it drew Rachel closer.
Instead of staying on the bed, the two plopped on the couch and opened a bottle of Côtes du Rhône from the minibar. They lie in each other’s arms talking until the sun came up. Rachel poured out her soul and felt it’s match in his. Seizing the twilight and the romantic scene that had passed between the two of them Micah boldly kissed her bottom lip gently, tasting the wine heavy on her breath. Surprised by his advance yet secretly hoping for it all morning long, Rachel gave in. Melting deeply into one another, Micah pressed her against his body, wrapper his arms protectively around her and carried her to the bed where the two shared what was left of the “night” together.
* * * * *
Rachel hastily awoke to the sounds of late-afternoon traffic bustling down several stories below her window. Although momentarily confused, she remembered the beyond wonderful evening she shared with such an amazing man. Feelings of infatuation, satisfaction and possibly even love all rose back up to the brim as she turned in bed to smother Micah in kisses.
Except, he was gone.
Nervously, Rachel scrambled to find her clothes. However, she was interrupted in her frantic thoughts of fear to a large wad of Euros neatly bound next to her on the bedside table. The only thing accompanying such a large sum was a note with X’s and O’s.
In an office building halfway on the other side of the city, Micah’s monotonously busy afternoon was momentarily interrupted by pleasant thoughts of his weekend. He prided himself on never asking for their names. By paying extra cash at the hotel desk, Micah checked out of the hotel room he’d broken into without a mess.
Shaking his head in disbelief, he scolded himself for wondering what his wife would think if she ever found out about his addiction to prostitutes and escorts.
“She won’t,” he chuckled to himself and returned to researching stocks on his computer screen.
1 comments:
Great story. quite unexpected! haha
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