36
I’VE TRIED TEXTING HER about twenty times — lots of sorrys and cute stickers. An ‘I love you’ Bitmoji or two. An ‘I’m sorry’ Bitmoji. She’s not biting. She’s obviously very upset.
I’ve spent all day staring at my phone, silently begging her to reply to my messages. I figure that the Bateaux-Mouches excursion is off, which is a shame because I was really looking forward to it.
“We’re still going,” I announce to Oscar and Corrie as we enjoy dinner at the Japanese place again — we were all getting sick of French food.
“I’m in,” Corrie cheers. “Let’s do this.”
“Who knows,” I say eagerly. “Maybe we’ll run into them. Maybe we’ll be on the same boat.”
Truth be told, that’s what I’m secretly hoping for.
As soon aswe arrive at the port, I look for her. The place is crazy busy, as are all tourist destinations in Paris, even at this time of year. I’m told the Bateaux-Mouches are the best way to see Paris — a stroll down the Seine and you get to see all the major attractions from the comfort of your seat.
“Do you see her?” Corrie asks, eager.
I strain my neck. There are so many people. “Nope.”
“Well, I don’t want to burst your bubble,” Oscar chimes in. “But these boats leave every thirty minutes. The chances of us being on the same boat as them are slim.”
I scowl at him. “Thanks, Oscar. Thanks a lot.”
We board the boat. The seats are hard, and it’s crowded. There are earphones and ten languages available to us. This boat has an English speaking guide so we won’t need the earphones. I’m nestled between Oscar and Corrie. The woman to our right picks up the headphones and chooses Spanish.
It’s cool, but a beautiful night nevertheless. I’ve dressed appropriately, swaddled in a thick jacket, scarf, hat and gloves. Corrie and Oscar are likewise prepared, thanks to me. I reminded them that boats are usually cold. I’m always the one who thinks of everything.
The sun is setting as we head off. The tour guide tells us all about the attractions and the bridges we pass under. So many bridges… I never realized there were so many on the Seine. I recognize the Pont des Arts where that Gypsy accosted me, drew a horrible drawing of me, and probably cursed me. I’m pretty sure he did. A small part of me will always be worried.
We sail past the Musée d’Orsay and the Musée du Louvre, and la place de Concorde. To be honest, I have no idea what that is, or what purpose it serves, but it sure is a pretty building. The architecture in this city is mind-blowing. How long must it have taken to build these fabulous structures? They certainly don’t make them like this anymore. Everything is efficient, streamlined now. No superfluous details. Just the basics. Such a pity.
Corrie is busy snapping away for her Instagram, and Oscar is just enjoying the scenery. My gaze darts around, hoping to see Mom on our boat, I’ve already looked as we set out on the river, but strangely enough, I’m still hoping to see her, as if she were to suddenly materialize out of nowhere, as if she were hiding in someone’s oversized bag.
Oscar squeezes my hand and shoots me a sweet smile. I recollect the night he told me about this brother. I can’t remember the last time we made love like that. It was different… so intense and emotional. Did it mean anything? Did it change everything between us?
The sun is getting low, and the river is a captivating sight. I get lost in the twinkling lights, and I revel in the sensation of being tucked in between my two best friends. Oscar and I have been best pals for over three years now, and we know everything about each other. He’s the only one I can truly confess to, and likewise, I’m his only confidante too. I know it was difficult for him to tell me about his brother, but I’m so glad he did. I feel like I understand him better now.
But can we do this? I’ve never had a relationship which lasted longer than six months. I’m just not built for them. I’m not wired that way. I’m better off alone. The last thing I want to do is ruin my friendship with Oscar. He’s my best friend. And shit happens when you get too close, when you stir emotions in the mix. We were doing just fine, just being friends who fuck. Are we getting too close? Are we making a huge mistake?
I shake my head, not wanting to dwell on it. I just want to enjoy this moment right now. We sail past Ile Saint-Louis and marvel at the beauty of Notre-Dame. The cruise is a little too loud for my liking; too much chattering all around, too many phone clicking sounds. Why can’t we all just sit in silence and enjoy?
The night gets dark as we sail past the Arc de Triomphe, and la Place des invalides (again, no clue what that is… I should really pay more attention to the guide). We head toward the Eiffel tower. It’s all lit up and magnificent. People get excited at the sight of it and start snapping photos again. Hold on, I want to scream.
As we get closer, it becomes imposing, larger than life. It’s beautiful, twinkling in the night. Of course, everyone stands, blocking my view, snapping away. I wish I could climb up on Oscar’s shoulders like I did that one time at that outdoor concert. I suddenly get lost in the memory of that day about two years ago. We’d gotten stoned and made love all night — it was one of the best days of my life.
I’m in Paris, standing in front of the Eiffel tower. Why am I thinking about a concert two years ago? I grab my phone and snap away too. If you can’t beat ‘em, might as well join ‘em.
It’s still earlywhen we get back to our apartment. My feet are aching. My heeled boots are stylish, but not designed for walking the streets of Paris. Corrie plops down in front of the ancient television set. She finds an English channel — it appears to be some British soap opera. I wonder if it’sCoronation Street.
The place is a complete mess. Neither Oscar nor Corrie are very organized. Truth be told, they’re both like sloppy teenagers. We’re leaving in about a day, and I really don’t want to deal with this mess then. I start in the kitchen.
“What are you doing?” Oscar asks. “It’s a beautiful night in Paris, and you’re cleaning a kitchen.”
I turn on the faucet to fill the sink. “Yeah, well, someone’s gotta do it.”
“Well, let me help you.”
I smile as he picks up a dishtowel. Corrie is still oblivious in the living room. This, I’m sure, is the result of years of having a cleaning lady who comes in every week, and a husband who is a bit anal retentive, constantly tidying the place. I remember watching a rom-com at her place once, and he was vacuuming the popcorn on the floor. Corrie is spoiled, is what she is.
