I give my head a tiny shake and smile at him, thinking that it’s time to set this place straight. Placing my hands on my hips, I scan my surroundings. Hmm. The flowers need watering and some trimming. Shelves are covered in dust. The floor needs a good sweep and mopping. The windows need attention too. I should be daunted by the amount of work ahead of me, but that’s the last thing on my mind. In fact, I’ve never been more ready in my life. Every part of me is vibrating with vigor and excitement.
I notice Mr. Lemaire observing me with curiosity and interest, probably trying to figure me out. I can almost picture what he sees. A woman more suited for The Ritz than at a decaying store swimming in dust. But the woman he sees is not who I am. It’s who I thought I needed to be, but not anymore. With each second that I spend in this place, that I spend in Paris, I’m more myself than I ever was in my cavernous house in Greenwich.
I point toward the back of the store and then mimic the movements of sweeping the floor. Mr. Lemaire frowns, confusion embedded in the lines of his forehead. If this were a cartoon, this is where he’d scratch his head as a big question mark appeared above him. I laugh, reaching for my dictionary sitting on the glass. After finding the word I’m searching for, I put down the book and look at him.
Our eyes meet. “Moi.” I point toward me. “Balai,” I say, pretending to hold a broom in my hand.
“Ohh!” He nods. “Aimerais-tu faire le par terre,” he says.
I’m not really sure what he’s saying, but I nod nonetheless, enjoying myself regardless of the very obvious language barrier between us. He gestures for me to follow him to the back of the store, and there he hands me a book with pictures of flower arrangements.
What?
How did we go from brooms to books? Did I use the wrong word?
Confused, I stare at the book in my hands when I hear Mr. Lemaire chuckling. Meeting his gaze, he’s watching me with an impish light in his eyes while holding a broom in his hand. Oh, he got me, and he got me good.
Laughing, I give him the book and reach for the broom. “Merci.” Mr. Lemaire, you naughty man.
The day passes in a blur. My soul dances in a swirling room made out of new experiences: the sensation of dirt beneath my fingers. Sweat across my forehead. The quiet, seldom laughter of Mr. Lemaire at seeing me tending to the flowers as though they are little children. Misunderstandings turning into more laughter. A quiet lunch sitting on the bench outside the store next to Mr. Lemaire who doesn’t say much because he doesn’t have to. I take my flats off, placing them on the ground next to me, wiggling my painted toes. The warm breeze kisses our skin, making our hair twirl in the wind. A sense of accomplishment takes over me, and my goodness, it is good.
When it’s time to close, Mr. Lemaire pats my cheek with a timeworn hand as his eyes hold mine. I wish I knew the words to thank him for what he’s done for me today, the gift he’s given me, but I don’t think I could ever find the right ones. We say goodbye until tomorrow.
Feeling like I’m at the top of the world, I rush home because I want to tell Sébastien about my day. I want to see him. Spend time with him. Watch the same wayward lock of hair fall over his one eye.
I stop at my place to pick up a bottle of champagne. Excitement pumps through my veins as I skip the elevator and take the stairs to his floor instead. Once I’m standing in front of his door, I take a deep calming breath and ring the doorbell twice before I have a chance to change my mind. There’s a part of me that wants to flee, afraid that he’ll think I’m being too forward. But the other tells me to chill, that I’m not doing anything wrong.
He opens the door. I raise the bottle and smile invitingly. “About that drink I owe you …”
Sébastien grins crookedly, scratching the back of his neck as his gaze lands on the champagne. My God. It’s like he’s a gift sent from the underworld to show and taunt us with the kind of pleasures one would find if we gave into temptation and sinned. “What’s the special occasion?”
“We’re celebrating.”
“Oh yeah? What are we celebrating?
“Life.”
I SPEND MY MORNINGS helping Mr. Lemaire in the flower shop, and little by little the store comes back to life. The dust is replaced by various blooms, and more customers walk in. Even Mr. Lemaire laughs more; we both do. My French hasn’t really improved, but with the help of Sébastien, who stops once in a while to have lunch with us, we’re able to communicate better and smooth out the bumps created by the language barrier.
And it’s wonderful. To find a purpose. To be able to look at yourself in the mirror and be proud of the woman staring back at you.
Before I know it, I’ve been in Paris for a few months. William doesn’t call anymore, and I’ve stopped expecting him to. And each day that passes, Sébastien embeds himself deeper in the DNA of my life, of my soul. From the first moment I laid my eyes on him, he’s slowly filled my world with colors I’d forgotten existed. And now it’s bursting with them.
Walks along the river on starry nights with him by my side while I balance myself on the ledge, arms extended, heart glowing. Sharing anecdotes in hidden cafés as we get drunk on wine, on food, and I get drunk on him. Dancing into the wee hours of the morning while Sébastien teaches me how to tango along the banks of the Seine.
Laughing at everything and nothing at all.
Thoughts of him keep intruding my mind. They make me blush and awaken my body with a hunger deep in my core that I haven’t felt in a very long time. Sometimes late at night, I reach under the covers, spread my legs apart, and fuck myself with my fingers while wishing it was his hardness inside me. I lick my lips, and I wish it were his tongue. Rub my nipples and imagine it’s his mouth. I reach for a pillow, pretending it’s his body, and then I come, whispering his name into an empty room like a prayer or an invocation.
It’s as though God has said, “Here, child, I give you the food for your starving soul. The music to fill the silence. The sun to warm you. The moon, the stars to show you the way. But be careful. Don’t be greedy. Too much of one thing can never be good.”
But I am greedy.
I keep borrowing more and more time with him, knowing full well that the clock is ticking. The sand running out of the hourglass. So I continue to live in my little bubble, praying that the tomorrows keep coming as I fall and fall, and that’s all I can do.
RECLINING MY BACK on the leather chair, I stare at the ceiling while bouncing a baseball against it. In the dark, the thumping sounds are soothing. The place is empty except for the cleaning crew and me. The lines ringing nonstop outside my office have been replaced by Latin music booming from a portable player outside in the hall.