car is here for you.”
The chauffeur opens the door, and I sit once more in the same seat I took in search of David. I held the found treasure in my hand unwilling to let it go for even a second out of fear it might vanish in front of my eyes.
“How did he know you were coming?” I ask.
“I called down while you were in the shower.”
“Are you always a step ahead?”
I want to ask where we’re going or what’s in store for the night, but for once, it feels nice to allow someone else to take care of me. I imagine it will be somewhere modern and trendy, as David seems the type. Maybe he’ll take me to a sushi restaurant or somewhere new where it’s hard to get a reservation. The tinted windows of the car make it difficult to enjoy Paris by night, but who cares when David is next to me. It’s no more than a few minutes when the car comes to a stop and the door pops open in front of a red restaurant called Davé. David grabs my hand and leads me inside.
“Mr. Summers, how good to see you again,” says a handsome Chinese man who appears to be the owner. He takes his hand with a successive bow that David mimics in return.
“Davé, this is Catherine Klein.”
He extends his hand with a more genteel grip; his hands are as tender as soft butter.
“Miss Klein, welcome to my restaurant. David is a very good customer, and I take very good care of both of you.”
The restaurant isn’t at all what I was expecting, this retro-chic parlor of Maoist red walls dotted with black and white photographs of Carla Bruni, David Bowie, and the former French Vogue editor Carine Roitfeld dining throughout. There, in one of the photographs, next to a caricature of John Galliano, is a picture of my David in a group of attractive but not famous faces.
“Wow, you’re even on the wall. That’s impressive.”
“He puts all of his friends on the wall. It’s less about the people being famous and more about who he connects with.”
Dim lights lend the feel of a modern-day opium den. Black lacquer chairs surround closely packed tables of incredibly fashionable guests hovering over quiet, intense conversations, and a backbeat of Charlotte Gainsbourg. Our table is tucked in a corner with a Ming-looking lamp made out of a vase set on a white tablecloth.
“Is this okay?” David asks before sitting down.
“Yes, perfect actually.”
We both disrobe of our winter coats that the waiter takes with him without giving a numbered ticket in return. There are no menus. I tuck the overly starched napkin into my lap as my eyes once more return to David, who has long since returned his gaze. He grabs my hand and strokes it with his thumb in a rhythmic motion that’s soothing to my heart and tells everyone around us that I am his and he is mine— at least this one night.
“So, this is the type of place that doesn’t really have a menu, so I’ll just order for both of us, if that’s okay.”
“No, totally, I love that idea,” I reply.
“Is there anything you don’t eat?”
“Nope, just order away. I’ll try anything once.”
“Anything?” he asks with an arched eyebrow as his leg rubs against my inner thigh under the table.
“So, I want to know more about you, David Summers.”
“Uh-oh, what do you want to know?”
“Have you ever had your heart broken?”
“Sure, when I returned home from Rio and this woman I met didn’t even try to contact me,” he says with a sly smile.
“I’m being serious. Have you ever been head-over-heels in love?”
“I’m not sure. But I have to say that I really haven’t made it a priority in my life. Marriage has always petrified me, and I always felt like love was a one-way street in that direction. I just can’t imagine having to answer to another person or being responsible for keeping another human being happy and fulfilled for the rest of my life. That seems like an incredibly long time.”
His words resonate with my own experience, the reality of when passion fades to
The chauffeur opens the door, and I sit once more in the same seat I took in search of David. I held the found treasure in my hand unwilling to let it go for even a second out of fear it might vanish in front of my eyes.
“How did he know you were coming?” I ask.
“I called down while you were in the shower.”
“Are you always a step ahead?”
I want to ask where we’re going or what’s in store for the night, but for once, it feels nice to allow someone else to take care of me. I imagine it will be somewhere modern and trendy, as David seems the type. Maybe he’ll take me to a sushi restaurant or somewhere new where it’s hard to get a reservation. The tinted windows of the car make it difficult to enjoy Paris by night, but who cares when David is next to me. It’s no more than a few minutes when the car comes to a stop and the door pops open in front of a red restaurant called Davé. David grabs my hand and leads me inside.
“Mr. Summers, how good to see you again,” says a handsome Chinese man who appears to be the owner. He takes his hand with a successive bow that David mimics in return.
“Davé, this is Catherine Klein.”
He extends his hand with a more genteel grip; his hands are as tender as soft butter.
“Miss Klein, welcome to my restaurant. David is a very good customer, and I take very good care of both of you.”
The restaurant isn’t at all what I was expecting, this retro-chic parlor of Maoist red walls dotted with black and white photographs of Carla Bruni, David Bowie, and the former French Vogue editor Carine Roitfeld dining throughout. There, in one of the photographs, next to a caricature of John Galliano, is a picture of my David in a group of attractive but not famous faces.
“Wow, you’re even on the wall. That’s impressive.”
“He puts all of his friends on the wall. It’s less about the people being famous and more about who he connects with.”
Dim lights lend the feel of a modern-day opium den. Black lacquer chairs surround closely packed tables of incredibly fashionable guests hovering over quiet, intense conversations, and a backbeat of Charlotte Gainsbourg. Our table is tucked in a corner with a Ming-looking lamp made out of a vase set on a white tablecloth.
“Is this okay?” David asks before sitting down.
“Yes, perfect actually.”
We both disrobe of our winter coats that the waiter takes with him without giving a numbered ticket in return. There are no menus. I tuck the overly starched napkin into my lap as my eyes once more return to David, who has long since returned his gaze. He grabs my hand and strokes it with his thumb in a rhythmic motion that’s soothing to my heart and tells everyone around us that I am his and he is mine— at least this one night.
“So, this is the type of place that doesn’t really have a menu, so I’ll just order for both of us, if that’s okay.”
“No, totally, I love that idea,” I reply.
“Is there anything you don’t eat?”
“Nope, just order away. I’ll try anything once.”
“Anything?” he asks with an arched eyebrow as his leg rubs against my inner thigh under the table.
“So, I want to know more about you, David Summers.”
“Uh-oh, what do you want to know?”
“Have you ever had your heart broken?”
“Sure, when I returned home from Rio and this woman I met didn’t even try to contact me,” he says with a sly smile.
“I’m being serious. Have you ever been head-over-heels in love?”
“I’m not sure. But I have to say that I really haven’t made it a priority in my life. Marriage has always petrified me, and I always felt like love was a one-way street in that direction. I just can’t imagine having to answer to another person or being responsible for keeping another human being happy and fulfilled for the rest of my life. That seems like an incredibly long time.”
His words resonate with my own experience, the reality of when passion fades to
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