“No, New York. What brought you here?”
“I needed a change. Someone broke my heart. I fled.”
“Was he white?”
Her question throws me. But I remember she’s had two white husbands. And that the French don’t have the stigma and history of violence associated with interracial relationships that Americans have. And so surely, she’s not judging.
“Yes. Why?”
She shrugs. “Just piecing you together.” And then, “Why Paris?”
“I spent my junior year here. It was life-changing. In the States I’vealways felt like I was trying to fit in but not necessarily succeeding. Like an immigrant, an outsider. I was Black, but not African American. Asian, but not predominantly. And by the time I was a teenager, we’d been gone from Jamaica so long that we stood out whenever we were visiting. To them, we looked and dressed and sounded American. They used to say we were ‘from foreign,’ and that kind of hurt. Not fitting in where you’re supposed to belong.
“But in France, I didn’t mind feeling ‘other’ because Iwas. I was learning the language, the customs, the culture. People understood that I was making the effort and they appreciated it. So I felt more welcome. Freer to be myself without people having preconceived notions. There were fewer assumptions, stereotypes, judgments. I found that refreshing.”
She nods, drinking me in. “So you’re happier here?”
“I am. You ask a lot of questions.”
“Because you won’t.”
It sits there in the air. A challenge.
“Okay. My turn, then. Do you really not remember meeting me in Cabo?”
She takes her time, sips her coffee. “I remember some. I didn’t, at first. Because that was a tricky time and there were lots of drugs and alcohol, and things I perhaps wanted to forget. But it’s coming back to me. Slowly.”
Her hand moves nervously across the table. She is fiddling with the sugar cube on her saucer. An eternity band, emerald and diamond, figures prominently on her left hand. Her fingers, long and elegant. Familiar.
“What do you remember, Anouk?”
She stops fidgeting then. Her energy shifts, focuses. “I remember kissing you.”
My heart stops. Stutters and then starts again. For a while neither of us speaks. Her eyes hold mine. Green, intense.
“I remember liking it. You wore overalls,” she continues. “And your hair in a long braid. That was you, yes?”
I nod, slow. “That was me.”
Time stands still for a moment. Our eyes are locked, and I am aware of how close she is to me. Something is moving between us,over us. I can’t quite articulate it, but I feel it in every fiber of my being. A pull, a yearning, almost. Both warm and electric, and the moment is so charged I wonder if the other patrons at Les Philosophes can sense it. Can see it.
Us.
Her lips part then, into a slow smile. “If I hadn’t figured it out, would you ever have told me?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. What clicked for you?”
“The ‘Jamaican-Chinese mouth.’ Last night. You mentioned it casually. And it stood out to me. That’s not too common a combination. But it wasn’t until later, when I was back at the apartment that I pieced it together.… That shoot. So much happened on that shoot.”
I say nothing. There were pieces I was still trying to put together from that shoot. Pieces I had been trying to forget. But if there was a series of events that had changed the trajectory of my life, it was that week in Cabo San Lucas.
And if she were being honest with herself, Anouk would likely say the same.
“Let’s get out of here,” she says suddenly, attempting to signal our waiter. “I’m meeting my son after school, and I want to get a little shopping in first.”
“Your son? He’s here?”
She nods, digging through her satchel. “He wanted to spend some time with his father. So we made a deal. One year. And then back to the States. I’m happy for him. But it’s killing me. So I’m here for a month to catch up. You have kids, no?”
