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I flip through the stack. There are the usual flyers from the various restaurants near my place, a couple of bills that are past due, but not past due enough to turn off the utilities quite yet…and a letter.
It takes me a second to realize who it's from.
At first, after I open it, my brain doesn't process the feminine script because I've worked for ten years to forget everything about her. But Valentina took a piece of my soul a long time ago, and the contents of this letter might be a chance for me to get it back.
Paris.
It's a city I love but should actually avoid. The City of Love isn't a place for a guy as soulless as me. Except I can see her there, standing under the shadow of the Eiffel Tower, red lipstick on her lips…those gold eyes promising me forever.
It's as clear as if I'm looking at the picture right now.
I throw down the letter and walk to my closet, taking out the shoebox that's covered in dust that I've kept in the far most corner. I couldn't bring myself to ever throw the contents of the box away, but at the same time, I've tried to pretend that the box didn't exist.
Lifting off the lid, nerves flicker through my stomach. I never imagined I would hear from her again. It was a dream, one I pushed away, just like the pictures in this box, and pretended that it didn't really exist.
I pick up the first picture, tracing the lines of her face. It took time to grow into the photographer I am now. At one time, all I cared about capturing was her.
There are hundreds of pictures in this box, each one a sucker punch to my gut because I'd forgotten that something so beautiful actually existed. My hand shakes when I pull out one of her, Logan, and Quaid.
Looking back, it's so obvious now what was going to happen. She's staring at me behind the lens in the picture, but the two of them…they couldn't look away from her face. I can remember this moment like it just happened yesterday. I had to tell them fifty times to look at the camera.
But this picture was the result.
I toss the picture back into the box and slam the lid firmly on. Then I throw the box into the closet, not caring that I just scattered pictures everywhere.
I sit on my bed, clenching and unclenching my fists.
Then I run out for a cigarette. Because if I can't smoke now, then really…when can I? The silver tendrils stretch through the air. I've smoked half the pack already, and if this doesn't give me lung cancer, then nothing probably will. Everything I've done my best to forget is right here, sliding through my mind over and over again.
That smile. That laugh. The way those lips felt against mine.
I was wrong about the desert. This moment is hell.
I take in one more draw of my cigarette and throw it in the ashtray. Walking back inside from my patio, the first thing I see is that fucking letter.
I pick it up again, tracing the words just as I had the outline of her face.
Paris.
The City of Love.
Valentina.
The photograph comes to mind. The one of that soldier holding the picture of his sweetheart. He died, and she was probably the last thing on his mind. Even though he thought she'd deserted him.
I don’t want to die someday with ugly words being the last thing I said to her.
I don't want to die someday and only have seen her face in a photograph for the rest of my life.
I guess I'm going to fucking Paris.
Chapter 4
Then
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Valentina
