I SPEND MY MORNING in Champs-élysées. My French still sucks, but at least I can find my way without the help of a map or Pierre. I explore its stores and museums. Fall in love with the city and its magical je ne se quois. I stop at a charming bakery and have pistachio and vanilla macarons for lunch because why not. Life is too short to spend it hungry.
When I finally make it to the Arc de Triomphe, I brave the crowds of tourists like me, climbing all the way to the top. Upon reaching it, I gasp as my eyes take in the view of the whole city. There are tree-lined boulevards to my left and to my right. The Eiffel Tower stands outrageously tall and proud like a queen holding court amongst its subjects.
There’s so much beauty around me that I didn’t see before. And it’s funny because, before this trip, all my memories of Paris were about William.
I close my eyes, enjoying the strong wind whipping my face. Five years ago, William brought me to Paris as a surprise after we’d got into a huge fight. We left New York with the ugly memory of it still ringing in our ears and resentment in our chests. However as soon as we arrived here, away from our problems, stripped from everyday life and everything that came with it, we were swept away by the magic the city had to offer. We weren’t William and Valentina anymore. We were just two old lovers rediscovering one another once again.
I saw the city through William’s eyes, and it was enough. We went to the places he wanted to visit, ate the food he liked to eat, drank the wine he enjoyed, admired art he wished to see. I was happy because he was happy. Because I got to spend time with him. Time that was already rare, and, therefore, precious to me.
By then, longer hours at work and weekly business trips kept him away from me. Sometimes days would pass, and the only interaction we would share was a quick morning kiss and goodbye or a rushed call between meetings. I found ways to keep myself busy, to fill the void his absence created. Spin classes. Luncheons. Organizing benefits. I learned about wife bonuses over high-priced salads. I shopped for things I didn’t need nor want, filling our house that felt more like a luxurious jail than a home. It was all a glittery front.
I knew I was very lucky. I had a roof over my head. A handsome husband. More money than I could ever spend in a lifetime. But did it matter when all I wanted was him?
Sometimes late at night, alone and tipsy with a glass of wine in hand while sneaking a cigarette on the balcony, I would wonder where I’d be had I not married William. What would my life be like if I hadn’t called him? Maybe I would have run away with that guy from my Lit class. It wasn’t disloyalty. It was curiosity. Loneliness. Melancholy. And maybe too much wine. I would laugh then, but it would come out more like a sob, the pain too close to the surface and impossible to hide.
I started avoiding Sailor too. Sailor with the husband who had a 9 to 5 job that didn’t pay him well enough. Sailor with the husband who adored her and their two young daughters. Sailor who always looked like a lovely mess with black bags under her eyes, traces of baby food dried on her inexpensive sweater, yet couldn’t be happier or more in love. I fooled myself into thinking that we were drifting apart because our worlds were too different and we didn’t have anything in common anymore.
But the truth is that I am jealous of her. So very jealous. I want what she has. I envy her small home with the ever-present smell of apple pie and vanilla. I want William to be there for me as Tucker is there for her, to look at me as he looks at her.
When I watched her feeding their daughter with her own body in the shabby living room as my empty hands felt my empty womb, the despair, the envy bordering on dislike, maybe even the hate I felt, became increasingly harder to hide or to ignore. I would go home and wait on the bed with the lights turned off for William to arrive. And when he finally walked through the doors of our bedroom, he’d kiss me on the cheek as he told me that he was exhausted. He’d ask me about my day without really caring what I had to say, thoughts of a shower and sleep already occupying his mind. And while he removed his tie, I would bring up the same topic I always did after visiting Sailor.
William, baby … I want to start a family.
His hand would freeze as his eyes met mine. Again, Val? We’ve spoken about this before. We’re young. We have a lifetime ahead of us. Why not wait a little longer? Enjoy each other.
But I don’t want to wait anymore. I’ve waited long enough.
Right now is not the best time, my love.
When will be the best time for you, William? It seems like it never is.
He would sigh, shaking his head. I can’t do this now. I’ve had a long day. Let’s talk about it tomorrow.
Yet tomorrow would never come. And the subject would be dropped like always. Maybe I should have seen it then. The first signs that all was not well, the small cracks that would eventually become fractures separating us. But I chose to live in the dark, because the dark was safe and it hid the truth and gave me temporary happiness.
I open my eyes, taking a deep breath. Paris looks very different to me now as I relearn it without William by my side. A little voice inside my head tells me that maybe it’s not the city I’m relearning, but myself.
On my way back to the apartment, I stop outside a small, quaint flower shop with a blue front to admire the arrangements displayed in the window. Frowning, I take a step closer to the glass. Something about these flowers tugs at my heart. Maybe it’s the way the rose petals are drooping like tired shoulders, or the dust muting the clarity of some of the vases. They remind me of neglected toys, the kind that once upon a time brought great pleasure to a child, but then she grew up, and now they sit forgotten in the corner of an attic.
When I’m about to go inside, I see an older gentleman standing behind the glass counter cleaning its surface listlessly. Desolately. His shoulders, like the roses on the window, are stooped, and his white hair messy as though it hasn’t seen a comb in weeks. His eyes seem to be focused on his wrinkled hand and the worn-out cloth beneath it, but even from afar, I can tell his mind is somewhere else.