ensure your time tomorrow will be set aside for me alone.
Later that evening, I rest my forearms on my windowsill and look out over the dusty silver rooftops streaked with the day’s final rays of sunlight. I hold my cell phone in my palm, preparing myself for calling you. I know we will only see each other tomorrow to celebrate the Fourth of July if I contact you to arrange the details. I should probably be irritated that I am always the one to initiate our meetings, but I’m becoming accustomed to it. My mind is calm.
You answer my call with “Hey,” your voice pleasantly warm.
“Hey! I was wondering if we’re still on for hot dogs on the Fourth of July tomorrow. Lady said there are fireworks on Champs de Mars in the evening and everyone goes down, drinks throughout the day.” Between my words I hear female laughter and background noise that makes me think you are outdoors. I imagine you sitting on a gingham picnic blanket, enjoying the sight of the girls, their cleavage alluringly exposed as they giggle and tipsily play with one another.
“I’m up for that, definitely up for that. I’m with some girls from my program right now, but I’m just about to leave . . . how about I call you tomorrow at ten?”
“In the morning?” I think it’s unlikely you will get up so early to call me, but since you have set the time yourself, I decide not to argue. “Sounds good. See you tomorrow!”
“Peace.”
The following morning, I wake up shortly after ten. As I suspected, you haven’t yet called, but I want to be dressed when you do.
I select my outfit with the intention of both pleasing your eye and corseting my torso. I want to be a little uncomfortable to give myself a constant physical reminder that I must pin in my desires while I am with you. My dress is patterned with elegant black-and-white stripes and heavily gathered at the waist so that it poufs away from my body, giving my silhouette an exaggerated hourglass shape. I arrange my silk balconette bra dyed a deep marbled rose so that it teasingly pokes up from my strapless dress when I move. My dress’ bodice fits my torso like a glove and the seams are lined with metal strips that press against my abdomen. I imagine that at the end of our day together, in the privacy of my room or yours, you hold the hot weight of your body near mine and slowly unzip my dress. As you move the dress away from my body, you press your lips to the mauve imprints running down my abdomen caused by my bodice’s metal bones, the care imparted from your lips like a healing poultice.
While waiting for you to call I look out my window onto Paris’ quiet streets. It’s just another slow, sunny summer day. None of the French are excited about it being America’s Independence Day.
By 11:45 you still haven’t called, so I decide to call you myself, but you aren’t answering. I begin to phone you in about fifteen minute intervals (not too exact, lest you suspect the obsessive meticulousness of my attempts to reach you). You finally answer at 12:34.
“Hey, I was sleeping.” Your words slur together, sticky with sleep. “Thank you for letting me sleep.”
“Oh, no problem.” I don’t want you to think I am upset you kept me waiting for over two hours. “What time should we meet?”
We agree to meet in an hour at the Monop’ on Saint-Michel to buy groceries before heading to your place. I am so thrilled to know for certain we will be seeing each other today that I forget about how long I had to wait to get in touch with you.
Two arrondissements across Paris I walk up Saint-Michel, thinking how I may seek you among Monop’s aisles of mustard and wine.
When I arrive, you are not inside. Opposite the entrance, I find you leaning against a slender tree. Upon seeing me you stand up and move toward me, lifting one cheek in a half smile. Your chestnut eyes rove up and down my body, gleaming with lustful thoughts.
We go into the grocery store.
Grocery stores in Paris are
Later that evening, I rest my forearms on my windowsill and look out over the dusty silver rooftops streaked with the day’s final rays of sunlight. I hold my cell phone in my palm, preparing myself for calling you. I know we will only see each other tomorrow to celebrate the Fourth of July if I contact you to arrange the details. I should probably be irritated that I am always the one to initiate our meetings, but I’m becoming accustomed to it. My mind is calm.
You answer my call with “Hey,” your voice pleasantly warm.
“Hey! I was wondering if we’re still on for hot dogs on the Fourth of July tomorrow. Lady said there are fireworks on Champs de Mars in the evening and everyone goes down, drinks throughout the day.” Between my words I hear female laughter and background noise that makes me think you are outdoors. I imagine you sitting on a gingham picnic blanket, enjoying the sight of the girls, their cleavage alluringly exposed as they giggle and tipsily play with one another.
“I’m up for that, definitely up for that. I’m with some girls from my program right now, but I’m just about to leave . . . how about I call you tomorrow at ten?”
“In the morning?” I think it’s unlikely you will get up so early to call me, but since you have set the time yourself, I decide not to argue. “Sounds good. See you tomorrow!”
“Peace.”
The following morning, I wake up shortly after ten. As I suspected, you haven’t yet called, but I want to be dressed when you do.
I select my outfit with the intention of both pleasing your eye and corseting my torso. I want to be a little uncomfortable to give myself a constant physical reminder that I must pin in my desires while I am with you. My dress is patterned with elegant black-and-white stripes and heavily gathered at the waist so that it poufs away from my body, giving my silhouette an exaggerated hourglass shape. I arrange my silk balconette bra dyed a deep marbled rose so that it teasingly pokes up from my strapless dress when I move. My dress’ bodice fits my torso like a glove and the seams are lined with metal strips that press against my abdomen. I imagine that at the end of our day together, in the privacy of my room or yours, you hold the hot weight of your body near mine and slowly unzip my dress. As you move the dress away from my body, you press your lips to the mauve imprints running down my abdomen caused by my bodice’s metal bones, the care imparted from your lips like a healing poultice.
While waiting for you to call I look out my window onto Paris’ quiet streets. It’s just another slow, sunny summer day. None of the French are excited about it being America’s Independence Day.
By 11:45 you still haven’t called, so I decide to call you myself, but you aren’t answering. I begin to phone you in about fifteen minute intervals (not too exact, lest you suspect the obsessive meticulousness of my attempts to reach you). You finally answer at 12:34.
“Hey, I was sleeping.” Your words slur together, sticky with sleep. “Thank you for letting me sleep.”
“Oh, no problem.” I don’t want you to think I am upset you kept me waiting for over two hours. “What time should we meet?”
We agree to meet in an hour at the Monop’ on Saint-Michel to buy groceries before heading to your place. I am so thrilled to know for certain we will be seeing each other today that I forget about how long I had to wait to get in touch with you.
Two arrondissements across Paris I walk up Saint-Michel, thinking how I may seek you among Monop’s aisles of mustard and wine.
When I arrive, you are not inside. Opposite the entrance, I find you leaning against a slender tree. Upon seeing me you stand up and move toward me, lifting one cheek in a half smile. Your chestnut eyes rove up and down my body, gleaming with lustful thoughts.
We go into the grocery store.
Grocery stores in Paris are
Similar Books
