Ansel kisses me once on the lips, warm and lingering, before he grips the condom and pulls out. “You okay?” he asks, bending to catch my eyes.
I stretch, do my best to look thoroughly wrecked, and smile up at him. “Absolutely. Just”—I pause for a very dramatic yawn—“sorelaxednow,” I say sleepily.
I can see the words on the tip of his tongue, the question: Did you?
“Do you want dinner?” he asks instead, kissing my chin. His voice has a slight shake to it, a breath of uncertainty.
Nodding, I watch as he rolls out of bed, puts his clothes back on, and smiles sweetly at me before ducking out of the bedroom.
Chapter TEN
THREE MORE DAYS pass in a blur of sightseeing, rich food, coffee, and worn-out feet, with only a few hours at home, awake with Ansel. He’s easy to be near, his goofiness returning after he’s had time to decompress from his day, and he has the rare ability to get me talking and laughing about anything: vegetables, sports, film, shoe size/penis size correlations, and my favorite places to be kissed.
But neither of us seems to know how to get the comfort of touching back. On the couch Wednesday night, he cuddles me, kisses the top of my head, translating a French crime drama in quiet whispers. He kisses my temple when he leaves for work and calls at noon and four every day.
But he seems to have put the sex in my hands . . . so to speak. And I am failing big-time. I want to tell him I’ll never be the seductive sexbomb, and he needs to unleash some of the wild Ansel to get me comfortable, but he’s too exhausted to do much more than take his shoes off when he gets home.
I pretend I’m in a movie montage, developing a new morning routine in my fabulous life in Paris. I stare out the window and sip the coffee Ansel made before he took off, deciding what I’m going to do all day and going over the small list of translations he’s left for me.
How are you? Comment allez-vous?
Thank you. Merci.
Do you speak English? Parlez-vous anglais?
Which way to the métro? Où se trouve le métro?
Where is the toilet? Où sont les toilettes?
How much? Combien ça coûte?
Why no, I’m not interested. My husband is perfect. Comment, non, ça ne m’intéresse pas. Mon mari est parfait.
Once I’ve showered and dressed, I get a pastry at the tiny patisserie two blocks from our building, where I chat with the American girl who works there, Simone, and then either walk or take the métro to a place I’ve never been before. The Latin Quarter, Montmartre, Musée d’Orsay, the Catacombs. I even plan a bike tour of Versailles, where I can see the expansive gardens and the palace.
It’s a dream life, I know this. It’s such a dream life that future-me almost hates present-me for having so much time and freedom and ever feeling lonely. It’s ridiculous. It’s just . . . I like Ansel. I’m greedy for more time with him.
At least there’s comfort in knowing I can call Lola or Harlow around the time they’re getting out of bed, and they’re both living vicariously through me. Friday afternoon I find a sunny bench outside the d’Orsay and call Harlow, to catch her up on everything Paris Adventure.
Even though Harlow has been here more times than I can remember, I tell her about our flat, about the métro, about the pastry and coffee and unending, curving streets. I tell her it’s easy to walk for miles and not realize it, that the most amazing landmarks are often tucked into the most ordinary places . . . though nothing about Paris is ordinary.
“And I’m meeting people!” I tell her. “Other than Ansel, that is.”
“Example, please. Would we approve?”
“Maybe?” I say, thinking. “There’s this American girl here, she works at the bakery where I get my breakfast. Her name is Simone, she’s from the Valley—”
“Ew.”
I laugh. “But she used the word gruesome to mean ‘cool’ and ever since then I can’t think of her as anyone other than Gruesimone.”
“This is why I would go g*y for you, Mia,” Harlow says. “You hardly say anything and then shit like this comes out of your mouth. Like the time you called me Whorelow when we had that fight in seventh grade and I started laughing and couldn’t stop until I peed my pants? We are terrible fighters.”
“Listen,” I say, cracking up at the memory. “She’s not speaking to her best friend since fifth grade because she chose the same song for her first dance at her wedding.”
Harlow pauses for a beat. “Give me another example, I can maybe see that one.”
“Seriously?” I pull my phone away from my ear and look at it as if she can see my judgment through the call. “And don’t worry, Harlow, neither Lola nor I will pick anything by Celine Dion.”
“I realize you’re mocking me but the woman is amazing. And in concert? Don’t even get me started.”
I groan. “Okay, so another example.” I sort through some options. I could talk about the other barista, the nonverbal Rhea—whom I’ve started thinking of as Rheapellent—but then I remember Simone’s weirdest habit. “Gruesimone says ‘FML’ for everything. Like—”
“Wait,” she interrupts me. “What’s ‘FML’?”
“Fuck my life.”
“Wow, okay,” she says. “And people use this for reasons other than ‘I have cancer’ or ‘I am trapped under a truck’?”