32 #2
“L’heure? Isn’t that something to do with time? Why does she want to know if I have the time?” he asks me in a low, panicked voice.
“It just means ‘see you later.’ Come on!” I say, giggling.
After dropping off my sleep-deprived but overexcited little sister, Vadim and I head underground and onto the Parisian metro, zipping off toward the lively Saint-Lazare district. Too busy kissing, we miss our stop, and Vadim teases me relentlessly.
We take the metro back in the other direction and get into a car filled with music.
An older man, beret pulled down over his head and eyes half closed, is playing Bob Marley tunes on the guitar and trying to get the passengers to sing along, though they are all too indifferent or too shy to join in.
Vadim, on the other hand, seems enthralled.
When the singer stops and moves down the aisle, his beret held out toward the passengers’ averted faces, Vadim slips a crumpled five-dollar bill into it.
“I don’t know what he’s going to do with that here, but it was sweet of you,” I whisper to him.
“Why isn’t anyone giving him anything? I thought people were rich in this neighborhood. What’s up with these cheapskates?”
“Vadim,” I giggle, “people do understand English, you know.”
“Parisians, you are… not nice!” he exclaims in broken French.
I burst out laughing and sink into my coat, looking away to pretend I don’t know him. Then I realize it’s time to get off the metro, so I grab him by the arm, just as the warning signal sounds. We run like crazy along the platform, laughing all the way, and then step back out into the open air.
We slowly stroll down Boulevard Haussmann, lost among a throng of commuters, tourists, and street vendors. Vadim takes my hand, something he rarely does in LA.
That’s the magic of Paris. It can make anyone romantic.
“Are we gonna go to the movies?” he asks me, pointing at a poster. “I want to see a movie while we’re here.”
“Okay, but not until we’ve seen this!”
Vadim soon discovers the beauty and magic of the department stores’ Christmas window displays.
For someone who hates the holidays, he spends a lot of time marveling at it all, like a child who didn’t grow up too fast. I slip my hand into the pocket of his puffer jacket, and together we walk through the doors of the Galeries Lafayette.
Beneath the magnificent dome, we take in the unique, expensive watches and jewelry, and test a billion perfumes until we can’t smell anything else anymore.
Then, I try on faux-fur coats to make him laugh.
He cries out when he sees a leather biker jacket that looks exactly like his own, then puts it back the moment he sees the price, as if it were burning his hands.
I lose him among the aisles, until he comes back to surprise me, wearing a top hat on his head and a blazer worthy of Basile.
We smile, we giggle, we stroll, we kiss some more. Light. Carefree. In love.
We don’t buy anything, of course, and eventually end up at H I get lost in his beauty.
I shiver at the thought.
He blows on my hands to warm them, and I have a hard time believing this guy loves me as much as I love him.
“Are you okay, Alma?”
I nod. I keep this thought to myself and leave him to his contemplation. Because if I say it out loud, I think I’ll love him even more. And it’s… dizzying.
We walk up to the Place de l’Opéra and sit on the steps, Vadim two steps above, me tucked between his legs, his chin resting on my pom-pom. Sometimes, his lips find my neck.
I observe the people around us, and I pity them.
For not being us. For not being as in love, as happy.
Whispering in my ear, Vadim says thank you.
For bringing him to Paris, for missing that metro stop with him, for picking out clothes for him.
And he whispers a bunch of other things that I’ll never forget.
I try not to cry, I really try, but I fail.
I whisper to him that my eyes are watering from the cold; he probably doesn’t believe me, but he holds me tighter without making fun of me.
And then we decide to head back. It’s almost time for dinner.
***