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The driver stares at me through his mirror, expecting me to say something.
“Uh…” I throw my hands up. “A bar. Any bar.”
His eyes narrow.
Not knowing how to say take me somewhere I can get utterly obliterated until the world ceases to exist in French, I make a cup with my hand, perform a drinking motion. “Drink? Take me somewhere to drink.”
“Ah. L’alcool. Oui, oui.” The driver nods, pulls away from the pavement, so I think we’re onto a winner. We don’t seem to travel long before he veers back to the side of the road, pointing to the meter on the dash.
From my window, I see a whole strip of bars, restaurants, and clubs on the relatively quiet street. Though, as we’ve just hit evening, I imagine life will start gathering soon enough. I take out my wallet, pluck out a note that’s worth double the fare lit up at the front of the car. “Merci,” I say, handing it to the driver before climbing straight out of the car.
After slamming the door behind me, I enter the first building I come to. Doesn’t look like much on the outside as I pass through a dingy wooden door surrounded by peeling posters. The interior doesn’t make up for it, with drab curtains lining the walls and chipped tables that look like they haven’t been updated in my lifetime, but there is a bar. Shelves stocked with every kind of alcohol I could desire. And right now, I desire them all.
Hitching onto a high stool, I toss some euros on the bar. “Surprise me,” I say above the music, angling my face downwards, hoping I won’t be recognised. I can’t be arsed smiling right now. From the look of it, the handful of locals dotted around the place feel the same.
After a few minutes, I’m served some kind of green potion with a foam top and a sprinkling of red petals. The type of drink you should sip, I imagine. Savour. I down it in one. “Jesus.” I don’t know which burns my throat more, the citrus tang or the alcohol. “I’ll take another one of those, please,” I call to the bartender, who I notice now is insanely cute. Dark skin. Square jaw. Curly hair long enough to grab while I fuck his mouth.
Only…I don’t want to fuck his mouth. I want to fuck William’s mouth. I can still taste him, those lips. Coffee and toothpaste. Pulling the neck of his jacket over my nose, I smell him, too. William’s cologne, the metallic tang of his job, blended with a scent unique to his skin.
But he left me. What happened?
The next drink slips down easier than the last. I order another, ask for something different. This time, I’m presented with a taller glass. Something orange, with cherries and a little umbrella hooked on the side. “Fruity,” I say to no one, before sucking a cherry into my mouth. “Fruity.” I start to laugh. My dad calls me fruity. There’s gin in this one. Gin and…something else. Something fruity. “Fruity.”
I stare at my next drink for a while, wondering what to do with it. A small wooden bowl is put in front of me, filled with a cloudy liquid, a dollop of sorbet, and topped with a green leaf. After a while, the leaf moves, and I don’t know if my vision is blurring or the sorbet is melting beneath it. I pluck the leaf between my fingers, twirl it in front of my face. “Am I supposed to eat you?”
It doesn’t reply.
I bite the corner.
It tastes like shit.
“What else you got?” I ask, before picking up the bowl and slurping around the sorbet.
I’m getting a look from the hot bartender now, and it’s not a happy one.
“Come on. I said please.” Didn’t I? Maybe he didn’t understand. “More drink, gracias. No, wait. Oui. Hola. Shit, what’s please in Spanish?”
“Monsieur, you are in Paris.”
“Aye. Paris. That’s what I meant.”
It’s busier in here now. We’ve been graced with some tourists. I know they’re tourists because they’re talking too loud and wearing I Heart Paris T-shirts, the ‘I’ an image of the Eiffel Tower. They sit next to me as my moody barman brings me a tumbler filled with something pink and creamy.
“Don’t eat the leaves,” I tell the man on my neighbouring stool. “They’re not good leaves.”
“Okay then,” he says, but I don’t think he sounds as grateful as he should.
“You’re American,” I note.
“Uh, yeah. My wife and I are here on our honeymoon. We’re from Boston. I’m Eric. This is Sydney.”
The woman waves from her stool behind him.
“My boyfriend has a wife. She’s not called Sydney though.” My eyes feel itchy as I take a sip of the pink drink. I think I’m too hot. “Are you too hot?”
“Um, no, sir. We’re okay.”
