metronome.
The waitress returns, seeming surprised that a) I wasn’t stood up and b) my date is so undeniably worth waiting for. Suddenly friendly, she pours us each a glass of the wine. I know Didier won’t be very hungry, so I order three hors d’oeuvres for us to share, the waitress shooting my companion curious glances as she scribbles.
Part of me wishes he appeared a bit more enthusiastic to be here. From the outside we must look like a couple on the verge of a breakup, me the cheerfully oblivious soon-to-be dumpee. But fuck what people think. Behind closed doors in the safety of the familiar, he’s warm and kind and wonderful. Not my boyfriend—his occupation doesn’t allow such an easy label. But he’s my first and only lover, my friend, and what feels more and more like a partner as the weeks pass.
Just now he’s as comfortable as an arachnophobe crawling with tarantulas, but I look past the fear to find his beauty, and past his beauty to all the fascinating depths beneath his skin.
He stares at his glass for a long moment and takes a stilted breath, then another, and finally one deep enough to catch in his chest, always a good sign. He blows it out, smiling weakly, and meets my eyes.
“Hello.” I speak as though he’s just arrived, because in a sense he has.
“Good evening.” He nods around us, the gesture a flimsy imitation of ease. “This is lovely.”
“I’ve never been, but my coworker says the food is amazing.” Though as an American transplanted from a dirt-poor patch of northern New Hampshire, I trust everything I’m fed in Paris is delicious, as long as it’s overpriced and hard to pronounce and comes with a cloth napkin.
“You said we have something to celebrate,” Didier says.
I pick up my glass and he does the same, and for a moment curiosity distracts him from anxiety. That warrants a toast in itself. “I have good news. I got promoted.”
Oh, that smile. He’s forgotten the restaurant and its noises and sudden movements, beaming pure happiness at me.
“That’s wonderful!” We clink our glasses. “Do you get a new title?”
I swallow the first sip, shutting my eyes to savor the tart, sharp red on my tongue before speaking. Setting the glass down, I say, “I do. I’m going to be the assistant to the director.” It’s a funny diagonal step up from assistant curator at the museum where I work, but it means that in another year’s time, I may get to see my name listed as regular old unadulterated curator in an exhibit program.
“I don’t get my own office or anything, but they’re giving me a nice raise.” A very nice raise, enough to move me to a larger flat if I don’t blow it all on fancy food and fancy clothes and gifts for my fancy French not-a-boyfriend.
“That’s excellent news. Congratulations.”
“Thank you. And we’ve got something else to celebrate as well.”
“Oh?”
I gesture at him, sitting here before me. “No taxi, right? And no escort.”
He nods and I catch him blushing, a rare sight indeed. It makes my own cheeks heat in return.
“I was terribly late.”
“But you’re here. That’s enough. Punctuality’s a goal for the future.”
“I froze at the postboxes.” I picture him there, immobilized beside the bank of narrow brass doors in his building’s foyer. “For twenty minutes. Maybe thirty. Neighbors came and went, and I pretended to be checking my pockets for something. And when I did leave I got lost, though I couldn’t tell you how or where.”
“But you un-froze, and you got yourself un-lost.”
“I suppose.”
“So salut to that,” I say forcefully, and we toast a second time. “How do you feel now?”
He glances to his side, dark eyes darting at the activity all around us. “Better. Stable.” His hands have stopped trembling, though now they’re unnaturally rigid like his shoulders. Still, a good sign.
“What did you do today?” I ask. It’s a Friday, and I wonder if he woke with another woman in
The waitress returns, seeming surprised that a) I wasn’t stood up and b) my date is so undeniably worth waiting for. Suddenly friendly, she pours us each a glass of the wine. I know Didier won’t be very hungry, so I order three hors d’oeuvres for us to share, the waitress shooting my companion curious glances as she scribbles.
Part of me wishes he appeared a bit more enthusiastic to be here. From the outside we must look like a couple on the verge of a breakup, me the cheerfully oblivious soon-to-be dumpee. But fuck what people think. Behind closed doors in the safety of the familiar, he’s warm and kind and wonderful. Not my boyfriend—his occupation doesn’t allow such an easy label. But he’s my first and only lover, my friend, and what feels more and more like a partner as the weeks pass.
Just now he’s as comfortable as an arachnophobe crawling with tarantulas, but I look past the fear to find his beauty, and past his beauty to all the fascinating depths beneath his skin.
He stares at his glass for a long moment and takes a stilted breath, then another, and finally one deep enough to catch in his chest, always a good sign. He blows it out, smiling weakly, and meets my eyes.
“Hello.” I speak as though he’s just arrived, because in a sense he has.
“Good evening.” He nods around us, the gesture a flimsy imitation of ease. “This is lovely.”
“I’ve never been, but my coworker says the food is amazing.” Though as an American transplanted from a dirt-poor patch of northern New Hampshire, I trust everything I’m fed in Paris is delicious, as long as it’s overpriced and hard to pronounce and comes with a cloth napkin.
“You said we have something to celebrate,” Didier says.
I pick up my glass and he does the same, and for a moment curiosity distracts him from anxiety. That warrants a toast in itself. “I have good news. I got promoted.”
Oh, that smile. He’s forgotten the restaurant and its noises and sudden movements, beaming pure happiness at me.
“That’s wonderful!” We clink our glasses. “Do you get a new title?”
I swallow the first sip, shutting my eyes to savor the tart, sharp red on my tongue before speaking. Setting the glass down, I say, “I do. I’m going to be the assistant to the director.” It’s a funny diagonal step up from assistant curator at the museum where I work, but it means that in another year’s time, I may get to see my name listed as regular old unadulterated curator in an exhibit program.
“I don’t get my own office or anything, but they’re giving me a nice raise.” A very nice raise, enough to move me to a larger flat if I don’t blow it all on fancy food and fancy clothes and gifts for my fancy French not-a-boyfriend.
“That’s excellent news. Congratulations.”
“Thank you. And we’ve got something else to celebrate as well.”
“Oh?”
I gesture at him, sitting here before me. “No taxi, right? And no escort.”
He nods and I catch him blushing, a rare sight indeed. It makes my own cheeks heat in return.
“I was terribly late.”
“But you’re here. That’s enough. Punctuality’s a goal for the future.”
“I froze at the postboxes.” I picture him there, immobilized beside the bank of narrow brass doors in his building’s foyer. “For twenty minutes. Maybe thirty. Neighbors came and went, and I pretended to be checking my pockets for something. And when I did leave I got lost, though I couldn’t tell you how or where.”
“But you un-froze, and you got yourself un-lost.”
“I suppose.”
“So salut to that,” I say forcefully, and we toast a second time. “How do you feel now?”
He glances to his side, dark eyes darting at the activity all around us. “Better. Stable.” His hands have stopped trembling, though now they’re unnaturally rigid like his shoulders. Still, a good sign.
“What did you do today?” I ask. It’s a Friday, and I wonder if he woke with another woman in
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