Chapter 14 August 1995 Lily Jacobsen—Program Manager #4
He sat up. “We should stop,” he said, his breathing ragged.
“What?” I responded, though I knew he was right. We were moving too fast.
“I don’t have any protection.”
The condoms in my medicine cabinet had been there so long, they were surely wizened fossils.
“And I don’t want to rush this,” he said.
I remembered the last relationship I’d rushed. It was with the guy who didn’t take the time to tell me he was married. Still dizzy with desire, I sat up. Chris put his arm around me.
“I like you,” he said. “I want you. It’s just… I don’t want to screw this up.”
“I like you, too.”
“Maybe we can just talk?”
Tonight was too much. The shock of wine thrown in my face. The thrum of desire doused with the cold shower of restraint. I was light-headed from lack of dinner and lust. Hungry for Chris and for Brie and baguette. Thirsty for tenderness and connection.
What I needed was a cup of Swiss Miss. The cocoa was my comfort food, something I couldn’t find in France.
When my stepmom asked what I wanted for Christmas or my birthday, I requested a box, the kind with marshmallows.
Dad grumbled about the exorbitant cost of airmail, but twice a year, I received a Swiss Miss care package.
With my birthday several months away, I had to ration my dwindling stash.
Once, Mary Louise and I had invited our friend Aurélie to share our coveted hot chocolate.
“Beurk! I can taste the chemicals,” she complained after one sip.
For months, the ritual was ruined. I switched to French cocoa, but it didn’t taste like home.
Then one day, Mary Louise mimicked, “Ew, the chemicals!” and the judgment became our in-joke.
I couldn’t drink a cup without offering Chris one and only hoped my singular pleasure wouldn’t be ruined again. “A cup of coffee, or Swiss Miss?” I asked.
His brow furrowed. “Une Suissesse? What does a Swiss woman have to do with anything?”
“It’s a brand of hot chocolate.”
“Sounds perfect.”
I heated the water in a pan and washed two mugs. When the water boiled, he poured it. We watched the mini marshmallows float. He took a sip, and I waited for his verdict.
“Delicious,” he said.
“The marshmallows make it special.”
“Indeed, they do.”
English sounded better coming from his lips. He enunciated clearly, as if each word was special and deserved attention.
We sat, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, knee to knee on the futon.
I told him about how much I’d loved sharing a cup with my two little brothers after an afternoon of sledding.
How much I missed them, even though we talked twice a month.
How when I’d lived at home, the significance of Swiss Miss hadn’t registered because I could always pick up a box, but now…
“Proust had his madeleine, you your Swiss Miss. Reminders of childhood that offer solace and make us nostalgic.”
“What’s yours?” I asked.
“My grandfather’s dear friend Bitsi makes quince jam. I smear it on everything—my afternoon tartine, even my pork roast. Sometimes a spoonful in my tea.”
I spread my calico quilt over us, and we burrowed underneath.
It was two in the morning, then three. Neither of us wanted to say goodbye.
The electricity of desire had transformed into a desire to know everything about each other.
Did he have siblings? No, he was an only child.
How long had he been a cop? Seven years.
The last time he’d been in love? A year ago, when he and his girlfriend had broken up.
She hadn’t been ready to commit. He was ready for a serious relationship.
“Do you think you’ll stay in France?” he asked.
I explained that at first, Paris was a puzzle that Mary Louise and I wanted to solve. The city was all-consuming—French slang to decipher, art galleries to explore, readings at bookstores every night of the week, jazz concerts in the basements of bars for the price of a watered-down drink.
“In those days,” I told Chris, “I was having too much fun to worry about family or be homesick.”
“And now?”
“Paris will always be a mystery. You could live here two hundred years and still not see everything.” I swallowed. “But I miss loved ones. I’m starting to pine for the quiet of Montana. I never thought I’d say that.”
It was nearly 5:00 a.m. We didn’t want to sleep, didn’t want to say good night. We regarded the squares of my quilt, the box of Swiss Miss on the counter, the paintings leaning against the wall. Thinking of Mary Louise, I sighed.
“It’s hard to lose a friend,” Chris said.
As hard as losing a lover, I wanted to say. Many movies and novels focus on the pain of divorces and breakups, but few seem to acknowledge how painful it is to lose a dear friend.
“Maybe she followed you to Paris, and now she’s figuring out what she wants? Don’t lose hope.” He glanced at his watch and jumped up. “I don’t want to leave, but I’m working the six a.m. shift.”
He leaned down to kiss me. He tasted of chocolate.
“Get some rest,” he murmured.
His sandalwood scent imbued my quilt. I fell asleep upright on the futon. Happy. Sated. With much to think about.