Chapter 9 #3
I stop. He looks entirely pleased with himself.
“Your tarragon?” I ask.
“You took the best bunch,” Damien says.
“I selected the best bunch,” I say.
“From my reach,” Damien says.
“Your reach was late,” I say.
“My reach was restrained,” Damien says.
“Your reach lost,” I say.
His eyes flicker with amusement.
“Then enjoy your victory.”
“I will,” I say.
“I believe you,” Damien says.
The vendor finally laughs under her breath.
Damien glances at her, and she pretends to rearrange parsley with great seriousness.
I turn before I can smile too much and walk into the market, my basket on my arm and the tarragon wrapped in brown paper like evidence.
I make it six steps before I think about him.
That is annoying.
I make it twelve more before I think about his hands again, the scar near his thumb, the way he knew the herb by touch before he trusted the scent, the way he looked at me as if I were not a woman in his way, but a question worth answering properly.
That’s even more annoying.
By the time I reach the tomatoes, I am still aware of exactly where he is behind me. I don’t turn around. I refuse to give a man that much power before breakfast. Instead, I pick up a tomato, press gently near the stem, and pretend the market is still the most interesting thing in front of me.
It almost works.
The tomato is excellent. Heavy for its size, fragrant at the stem, the skin taut but not hard. A perfectly good object of attention. Worthy, even. In another version of this morning, I would give it the full respect it deserves.
In this version, I’m aware of a very attractive man moving somewhere behind me with a canvas bag over his forearm and tarragon that should have been mine if I believed in losing, which I do not.
I buy four tomatoes, a small wedge of goat cheese from a woman who corrects my pronunciation of the farm name with devastating courtesy, and a handful of cherries that stain my fingertips before I am halfway back to the hotel.
I do not look for him again. I also do not manage to stop seeing him in small pieces: his hand on the herbs, the silver at his temples, the way his gaze had moved over my face without trying to charm me and somehow had done worse.
By the time I return to Le Marais, Paris has turned gold and loud.
The bakery is open now. The café terraces are full.
A woman in a white sundress is arguing with a man beside a parked scooter, her sunglasses pushed into her hair, her hands cutting through the air with the elegance of a woman who has practiced fury and found her angles.
Two delivery men unload crates near the corner.
Somewhere above me, music plays through an open window, old jazz slipping over the street like something remembered rather than chosen.
I go upstairs, lay the market haul on the desk, and unwrap the tarragon. The scent rises at once. Green. Sharp. Too specific to ignore. I put it in a glass of water by the window because throwing it away would be childish and keeping it feels only slightly less so.
Then I work. I write up notes from the market, draft a short paragraph on early-morning sourcing culture in Paris, answer Diana’s comments on the Lyon piece, and spend twenty minutes editing one sentence about quenelles until it stops sounding like I want to marry a sauce.
I eat tomatoes with goat cheese and cherries over the sink because hotel plates always make food taste like compromise.
By late afternoon, the room has warmed around me, the curtains shifting in a faint breeze, the tarragon still sitting in the glass near the window like a quiet little accusation.
At 6:00 PM, I close my laptop. Not because I am finished, but because I’m becoming useless.
There is a wine bar in Saint-Germain that Pierre mentioned in Lyon after two glasses and one argument about whether bitterness can be seductive.
He wrote the name on the back of a receipt, then told me not to go if I wanted comfort.
That recommendation has been sitting in my notebook for three days.
I change into a black slip dress that does not wrinkle if I look at it wrong, low sandals, and gold hoops small enough not to suggest effort.
My hair refuses to behave after the heat of the day, so I twist it low and secure it with two pins.
One piece falls loose by my cheek before I leave the room.
I let it. Paris has already made enough decisions about itself.
It does not need my hair to become another one.
The evening outside feels softer than the morning.
Not cooler, exactly. Paris in late June does not cool so much as rearrange its heat into something more persuasive.
The stones still breathe warmth. The air still clings lightly to the skin.
But the light has dropped, and with it, the city has begun to forgive everyone for being alive in public.
I cross the river on foot. The Seine below is bright in long broken pieces, catching the last sun between the bridges.
Boats move slowly beneath me, tourists lifting phones, couples leaning into each other, the water accepting all of it without opinion.
The city looks staged from this angle. It always does.
Paris understands bridges as seduction and uses them shamelessly.
The wine bar is on a narrow street with no sign I would have noticed if Pierre had not drawn a little star beside the name.
The door is open. Warm light spills onto the pavement.
Inside, the room is all dark wood, zinc, mirrors clouded at the edges, shelves of bottles, and small tables placed close enough that every conversation becomes part of the room’s weather.
It’s already busy.
Good.
Not fashionable busy. Not the sterile, self-conscious hush of a place trying to prove its relevance.
This is neighborhood busy, industry busy, people-who-know-what-they-came-for busy.
A pair of women share a bottle near the window, both leaning over the table with the intensity of a confession.
Three men at the bar are laughing with the bartender while pretending not to look at the plate of saucisson between them.
A couple in the corner sits so close their knees must be touching under the table.
The bartender looks up as I enter. She has cropped black hair, a linen shirt rolled at the sleeves, and a face that does not ask whether I am alone because the room has already told her how to behave.
“Bonsoir,” the bartender says.
“Bonsoir,” I say.
“One?” the bartender asks.
“Yes.”
The bartender gestures toward the back.
“There is a table in the corner.”
“Perfect,” I say.
The table is small, tucked beneath a mirror, angled toward the room enough to let me watch without being watched too easily.
I sit with my back near the wall, place my bag beside my chair, and take out my notebook only after the first glass arrives because even I understand that a woman alone in a Paris wine bar with a notebook can look either interesting or unbearable depending on timing.
The bartender brings a pale white from the Loire without ceremony.
“You want the list?” she asks.
“What is this?” I ask.
The bartender says the name of the producer, then adds,
“Chenin. Dry. Good acid. No drama.”
“No drama sounds very promising,” I say.
The bartender smiles. “People are enough drama.”
“I agree.”
She sets down the glass.
“Then drink.”
I drink. The wine is sharp, clean, lightly honeyed at the edges without sweetness. It tastes like wet stone, green apple, and restraint. No drama, as promised. I write that down.
The first hour is easy. I order anchovies with butter and bread, then a plate of radishes, then a small dish of warm white beans with herbs and olive oil.
I take notes, but not too many. Some rooms punish excessive observation.
This one rewards participation. I listen to the women by the window talk about a man named Luc who apparently has made three terrible decisions in one week and one excellent risotto.
I watch the bartender pour wine without wasting a drop.
I notice which bottles are recommended to whom, which regulars are greeted by name, which guests are gently redirected away from what they think they want and toward what they will actually enjoy.
I’m halfway through my second glass when the room shifts.
I don’t see him enter at first. I feel the door open.
Not in a mystical way. I am not that kind of woman, and if I become her, Sophie has instructions to intervene.
The room simply changes. A draft from the street moves across my bare shoulder.
The bartender looks up. One of the men at the bar turns his head, then returns to his conversation after recognizing the person who has walked in or deciding recognition is not required.
I look toward the door. Damien is standing just inside.
No canvas bag this time. No market in his hands.
He wears dark trousers and a white linen shirt open at the throat, sleeves rolled over his forearms. The fabric is simple.
The effect is not. The early morning sharpness of him has shifted into evening ease, though ease may be the wrong word.
He does not relax so much as control less visibly.
He scans the room. He’s not searching desperately.
Not performing indifference. Simply deciding whether the room deserves him tonight.
Then he sees me and his expression changes.
Barely. His gaze holds on mine across the room, and the entire wine bar seems to narrow without becoming smaller.
The bartender says something to him, but he does not answer right away.
I know this because her brows lift with amusement. I should look away—but I don’t.