the kitchen so he can crack the oven door and
switch off the heat. Already my palm is clammy and I want to run. I want to run
away from what’s coming and from this delicious roast I surely won’t even get a
chance to taste.
He leads me to the front door, not bothering to put his
shoes on.
“Should I get my stuff?” I ask.
He looks confused. “No.”
“Okay.”
Back to the stairwell we head, Didier marching with more
purpose than usual at this moment. But his hand shakes in my damp one,
undermining the show.
“Where are—” I don’t finish, too surprised when we turn left
in the stairwell, heading up the steps, not down.
He drops my hand as we turn a corner, climbing another half
flight. It’s cramped and dark, with just enough light for me to watch him draw
a padlock from a latch. The door opens with a creak, a sliver of gray sky
widening to a rectangle. Didier helps me over a high threshold and out onto the
narrow, tar-papered roof, caged on all sides by an old wrought iron latticework
rail topped with posts like spearheads.
Paris is all around us, above and below, in every direction,
its tallest spires hidden by the heavy woolen cap of clouds.
I’ve never been dumped before. I’ve never even had a
boyfriend before, and Didier’s the only man I’ve gone on enough real dates with
to warrant such an official conclusion…but I don’t think this is right.
People don’t get taken to rooftops to get cut loose. They
get taken to roofs to be murdered, perhaps, but even panicking as I am, I know
that’s now why we’re here.
I look up at his strained face. “What’s going on?” Why
have you brought me to what must be the most unpleasant spot an agoraphobe
could imagine? What on earth are you trying to prove?
“I need to say something to you.” He swallows one, two,
three times. He falters, gaze darting all around us, at his worst nightmare.
When he switches to French, the words seem to come easier. “I wanted to tell
you here. When I’m terrified, so you’d know I meant it.”
My shriveled lungs swell a bit and my aching heart gives a
weak pump. “All right.”
He clears his throat and takes my other hand, holding each
gently, running his thumbs over my knuckles, eyes on the task. He clears his
throat again. I look everywhere—at our hands, at his face, at the first beads
of light rain clinging to his dark hair.
“A few months ago,” he begins, slow and shaky but clearly
determined, “I hadn’t left this building in three years. I hadn’t taken my
laundry out or collected my own groceries, sat and had a coffee in a café. Or
smelled the grass or felt the sunshine.”
A fat raindrop smacks me on the temple and slips down my
cheek.
“I hadn’t passed an evening with a woman—just her and I with
no money exchanged—since before my exile. I haven’t felt I had much to offer,
besides my talents, in all that time.”
I give his hands a squeeze just as another drop lands,
slipping between our fingers. The breeze flings my curly hair all over and
threatens to lift my skirt.
“You’ve made me feel things again. Made me want to
feel things again.” His gaze jumps to mine for a second before dropping shyly
back to our hands. “Difficult things, not easy ones like lust. The things I
work so hard to numb, like fear and helplessness and…and attachment.”
My brows rise.
He laughs, the sound like a huff of frustration or
disbelief. “I don’t know why you think I’m so worth fighting for. But I’m
grateful you do. And I’m grateful for whatever it is about me that keeps you
coming here, dragging me out that door every morning we wake together.”
My throat is swollen, sore and tight; the pain is so sweet, nothing like the way my heart hurt a few minutes ago. My eyes are
already glossing with stinging tears, my lips quivering.
“I’m going to tell you something,” Didier says in English.
“I wish I could claim I’ve never said it to anyone else. I have, but if I’d
known
switch off the heat. Already my palm is clammy and I want to run. I want to run
away from what’s coming and from this delicious roast I surely won’t even get a
chance to taste.
He leads me to the front door, not bothering to put his
shoes on.
“Should I get my stuff?” I ask.
He looks confused. “No.”
“Okay.”
Back to the stairwell we head, Didier marching with more
purpose than usual at this moment. But his hand shakes in my damp one,
undermining the show.
“Where are—” I don’t finish, too surprised when we turn left
in the stairwell, heading up the steps, not down.
He drops my hand as we turn a corner, climbing another half
flight. It’s cramped and dark, with just enough light for me to watch him draw
a padlock from a latch. The door opens with a creak, a sliver of gray sky
widening to a rectangle. Didier helps me over a high threshold and out onto the
narrow, tar-papered roof, caged on all sides by an old wrought iron latticework
rail topped with posts like spearheads.
Paris is all around us, above and below, in every direction,
its tallest spires hidden by the heavy woolen cap of clouds.
I’ve never been dumped before. I’ve never even had a
boyfriend before, and Didier’s the only man I’ve gone on enough real dates with
to warrant such an official conclusion…but I don’t think this is right.
People don’t get taken to rooftops to get cut loose. They
get taken to roofs to be murdered, perhaps, but even panicking as I am, I know
that’s now why we’re here.
I look up at his strained face. “What’s going on?” Why
have you brought me to what must be the most unpleasant spot an agoraphobe
could imagine? What on earth are you trying to prove?
“I need to say something to you.” He swallows one, two,
three times. He falters, gaze darting all around us, at his worst nightmare.
When he switches to French, the words seem to come easier. “I wanted to tell
you here. When I’m terrified, so you’d know I meant it.”
My shriveled lungs swell a bit and my aching heart gives a
weak pump. “All right.”
He clears his throat and takes my other hand, holding each
gently, running his thumbs over my knuckles, eyes on the task. He clears his
throat again. I look everywhere—at our hands, at his face, at the first beads
of light rain clinging to his dark hair.
“A few months ago,” he begins, slow and shaky but clearly
determined, “I hadn’t left this building in three years. I hadn’t taken my
laundry out or collected my own groceries, sat and had a coffee in a café. Or
smelled the grass or felt the sunshine.”
A fat raindrop smacks me on the temple and slips down my
cheek.
“I hadn’t passed an evening with a woman—just her and I with
no money exchanged—since before my exile. I haven’t felt I had much to offer,
besides my talents, in all that time.”
I give his hands a squeeze just as another drop lands,
slipping between our fingers. The breeze flings my curly hair all over and
threatens to lift my skirt.
“You’ve made me feel things again. Made me want to
feel things again.” His gaze jumps to mine for a second before dropping shyly
back to our hands. “Difficult things, not easy ones like lust. The things I
work so hard to numb, like fear and helplessness and…and attachment.”
My brows rise.
He laughs, the sound like a huff of frustration or
disbelief. “I don’t know why you think I’m so worth fighting for. But I’m
grateful you do. And I’m grateful for whatever it is about me that keeps you
coming here, dragging me out that door every morning we wake together.”
My throat is swollen, sore and tight; the pain is so sweet, nothing like the way my heart hurt a few minutes ago. My eyes are
already glossing with stinging tears, my lips quivering.
“I’m going to tell you something,” Didier says in English.
“I wish I could claim I’ve never said it to anyone else. I have, but if I’d
known
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