“It’s been filled,” she said in a rich French accent. I’d once heard you could tell someone was lying to you if they didn’t look you in the eyes. This woman’s were roaming in every direction save for mine. “Can I help you with anything else?” she asked, using her mocha colored eyes to give meaning to her question.
Even though I would never need a morsel of sustenance for the rest of my days, my stomach growled when I viewed the rows of éclairs, tarts, and croissants the woman was eyeing. “No,” I replied, turning to leave, sniffing the air in hopes I could get my fix this way. “Merci beaucoup.”
Out on the cobblestone walkway in front of the café, I stood there, not knowing which way to go. I couldn’t retreat back to my apartment; the first of the month had been two days ago and I’d found the second note slipped under my door this morning from my landlord. Like the first, it was written in French and although I couldn’t read it word for word, the meaning between them left nothing unsaid. Pay or leave had been the jist, minus the Cher Bryn and si vous plait that had been penned in yesterday’s slightly more courteous letter.
I had to find a job, but I doubted if my future attempts would wager any other result than the past thirty. The reasons for rejecting my employment had been as inventive as the entry to the Louvre. No work visa, couldn’t hire a foreign employee, you must be fluent in French . . . and my favorite of all; you have to look like you know what you’re doing.
I toed at one of the cobblestones, the muted gray of the sky creating a monotone quilt of color on the walk-way. Trying not to wallow in thoughts of the butterfly effect and falling dominoes, I looked up . . . and time stopped.
The bodies shuffling down the sidewalk, the cars jetting down the road, the stripped cloth awnings blowing in the wind—everything stilled as if I’d snapped a picture and frozen the moment forever.
The only movement was the blink of a pair of eyes staring into mine across the road. His face was frozen, but a showing of regret was apparent on it.
I felt the shock coursing through my body make its physical appearance. My breathing had just started its acceleration when he spun away and took off down the alley behind him.
“William!” I yelled, causing the freeze-framed world to break back into motion. I flung myself into the street, realizing too late there was rush-hour-like traffic crowding the streets. I made it to the second lane before one of the clown-sized cars careened into me. It didn’t stop me, though—it hadn’t even sent me flying to the ground. I swatted the car away from me as if were nothing more than a buzzing fly, winding out of the dent it had carved around my hips.
“William!” I yelled again, losing sight of him when he weaved down one of the alleys that twisted and turned like a maze through this part of Paris.
I didn’t stop to assess the damage of the car or its driver or to think about the consequence of the scene I’d just created. It’s a good thing I was flying solo now; the Council would have been more than irked to learn about this new predicament I’d put them in. Flattening a car when it should have flattened me . . .
I slid to a stop halfway down the alley, looking every which way, not wanting to zig when he’d zagged. I closed my eyes, trying to recall the way I felt whenever he was around. That electric, intimate energy that linked me to him.
I felt nothing. There was nothing but the scent of stale trash mildewing in the dumpster beside me and the bitter taste of losing him all over again on the tip of my tongue. Feeling like I was looking for a needle in a haystack, I shot down the alleyway to my left, praying with everything I had that I’d find him, not caring why I’d left him in the first place: to keep him safe and away from me.
I ran like I had nothing to lose, although I had everything to lose again now that he’d jettisoned back into my life. The wind cutting across my face felt like ice-picks stabbing my skin.
The alley came to an abrupt end, nothing but a tall brick wall painted with graffiti waiting for me. “No, no, no,” I whispered, wanting to yell them at someone. “Don’t do this to me,” I said, realizing I was speaking to the world I seemed to be playing some game of war with. To say I was losing was generous.
My desperation turned to anger and I punched the brick wall, feeling it give. A shower of brick and mortar rained down at my feet. I leaned my shoulder against the brutalized wall, refusing to hang my head for fear of missing a glimpse of him weaving through the maze of run-down buildings.
A door painted in flat black paint a hundred feet down swung open and my heart stopped. I sucked in a breath, willing his form to emerge into the twilight.
A female figure swung out instead, the light casting a figure with ample shape on the wall behind her. “You are a pig,” she shouted through the door, before making a spitting sound. “Bon Chance trying to replace all this,” she yelled, giving her figure an all-out shake. The door slammed shut behind her and her heels clanked down the alley away from me, verbalizing as many French curse words as she could fit in her sentences. Like most high-schoolers, the profanities of any language seemed to stick in my mind when nothing else would.
Not about to let the possibility that he’d escaped behind the black door go uninvestigated, I jogged down the alley and ripped the door open, giving it more force than needed since I expected it’d be locked. The area warranted locks, armed guards, and laser fields in my opinion. The door groaned open, welcoming me in, and I wondered if instead of trying to keep trouble out, it preferred to invite it in. Not caring if I was discovered as an intruder or potential prey, I rushed down the dark hall.