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Yeva reached out and took the money.
The car window began to close, and the woman raised her voice against the rising glass. ‘Go home.’
In the Parisian Garret
When she got home from work, Noémie found Dan straddling the windowsill, half in, half out, with one leg stretched along the roof tiles. The room was dark, aside from the red glow of the cigarette he was smoking.
‘Are you okay?’ she said, standing stock still with one hand held out, palm open, like you would with a frightened horse.
‘Come over here.’ He patted the ledge.
She crossed the floor and sat down in the open window space, facing him. She reached for the cigarette in his hand. He turned his hand and held it to her lips. She inhaled, blew smoke out the window. She took the cigarette from his hand and crushed the butt on a roof tile.
‘You shouldn’t smoke,’ she said.
‘I should have told you sooner .?.?.’ he said at the same moment.
‘Quoi?’
He didn’t answer, just sat there, staring out across the city.
‘What should you have told me sooner, Dan?’
Even when he spoke, he still didn’t look at her. ‘I’ve booked my flight. I couldn’t put it off any longer.’
Noémie had known it would come to this, that he would, eventually, get on a plane and fly away. She had taken care to protect herself, to guard her heart. He didn’t mean any harm, but what would a fancy American lawyer want, in the long run, with a waitress? Nothing. He was kind and decent, she knew that – but she also knew that what they had was, for him, simply a fling, a holiday romance that had been unexpectedly extended by the auspices of a global pandemic. It was vital, she had reminded herself daily over the last year and a half, completely vital to maintain perspective.
‘When?’
‘Next Sunday.’
Noémie felt a peculiar tightening of her chest, as though her organs were being compressed. It was obvious, painfully evident, that her precautions had failed. No amount of careful reasoning could have sufficiently insulated her heart from Dan. Taking refuge in anger, she took a breath to strengthen her voice.
‘NextSunday?’
‘I’m sorry. It’s the very latest day I can leave. If I don’t turn up to class on Monday, I’m out of the course.’
‘Next Sunday? Andnowyou tell me?Si froussard.’
‘What’sfroussard?’
It was typical of Dan to want to understand every word.
‘You will be the most excellent lawyer, Dan.’ She spat it at him.
‘What’sfroussard?’
‘You want a French lesson from me?’
He put his hand on her knee. ‘What’sfroussard?’
She slapped his hand away. ‘Chicken.’
He breathed in once, swallowed, breathed out. ‘I deserve that.’
And again, like all the times before, he slipped through her defences. He disarmed her.
‘You do.’
