Two Americans in Paris by Julia Ritt

might be in. “You know, all the people I know who have been mugged in Paris are guys, actually.”
    “So maybe I should be worried . . .”
    I look at you for a moment, my handsome dear walking in the shadows. I think of how I would love to walk you home, but you are intelligent enough to avoid trouble. “Naw, I think you’ll be alright.”
    As we near closer to the moment of parting with every step, I wonder how we will say goodbye. Simply heading off into the night with a mere wave is, by now, too impersonal. I often do bisous (a kiss on each cheek) with my European friends, but we’re both American, so bisous wouldn’t be appropriate. All I want is to kiss you. That doesn’t seem right either, considering you have a girlfriend.
    A block before Saint-Jacques, the street you live on, you turn right. I stop, confused as to why you are turning early. “But Saint-Jacques is down there.” I point toward it.
    “It’s faster this way.”
    “Oh. But Saint-Jacques is down there?” I ask, feigning dumb. From here I can see the shop filled with miniature Pokéman and Star Wars figures that marks the intersection of Saint-Jacques and Saint-Germain.
    “Yeah.”
    So here we part. You pop your arms from your sides, inviting me into them. You want to hug me. It’s the simplest, friendliest gesture I hadn’t even thought of because my mind was so focused on my desire to kiss you. I walk into your arms and you rest your solid limbs in the curve of my back, pressing your warm chest to mine. You smell like soft, freshly washed cotton with hints of vanilla and winter evergreen. I would be so happy to stay in your embrace longer, but you pull back and turn toward home.
    “Goodnight! Get home safely!” I call to you.
    “You too! Good night!” you call back.
    I turn down Saint-Jacques toward the Seine, which will guide my way home. As I walk I imagine you walk with me, a protective presence by my side. Even the thought of having you with me sends sparkles of excitement through my limbs, making Paris appear so much more beautiful than if I felt alone. The bridges over the Seine are silver-gray in the cloak of night. Across the Pont de la Concord the Hotel de Crillon is arranged with neat rows of Corinthian columns lit with golden orbs of light. As I pass the Musée d’Orsay I imagine the animal statues bounding about the courtyard. The rhino playfully butts the horse’s flanks while the elephant loops his trunk around the rhino’s thick leg. I turn down l’Esplanade des Invalides and inhale the delicate fragrance of the summer flowers flourishing within Invalides’ garden. By the time I arrive chez moi my body is weary from the long walk and I am glad to crawl into bed. I fall asleep thinking of you.
    I dream that, along with many other couples, we are flying around the Église d’Invalides, our bodies intertwined so that we are held together as we circle the upper realms of the dome. Because of the way our bodies are intertwined your hand is pressed firmly between my thighs. Although it doesn’t seem your hand should need to be there in order for us to be held together, the pressure feels fantastic. “You know your hand is—” I say, unable to finish the sentence, as thinking of exactly where your hand is causes a rush of pleasure to run through my body, shutting off my speech. You look at me and smile in response as if silently asking, “Do you want me to remove it?” I respond as if you had spoken the words. “No, of course not, it just feels—” I’m again unable to finish my sentence. Another rush of pleasure is running through my body, its source stemming from the steady pressure of your hand.
    With the arrangement of our intertwined bodies agreed upon, we enjoy our airborne view of the Baroque masterpiece. The walls are a bright, shimmering white and the giant statues of winged women in Grecian robes surrounding Napoléon’s tomb appear even more magnificent from our aerial view than I remember them being