6th installment
continued...
I put on yesterday’s clothes and head out into the crisp air alone. I’m wary of becoming overly attached to my Parisian counterpart and set it upon myself to have a day to myself to ponder and regale with a friend the prior day’s events. He’s starting to occupy my mind more than is comfortable and I try to knock him from my thoughts for just a second, but he keeps biting back more aggressively. I look at my reflection in a shop window, my hair slightly frazzled and my rosy cheeks accentuating my red locks. I helplessly try to mend my appearance, embarrassed by my ‘bed head’. I really should have brought a hairbrush. The cold, fresh air is jarring to my lungs and walking past a crepe stand I see a man with a comic moustache and a wide smile who perches over freshly made pancake batter. I stop for a moment and order myself one for the journey home, covered in lashings of creamy nutella. It starts dripping out of the bottom of the flimsy cardboard holder so I lick the underneath, smearing it all over my face. A passerby stops and stares in disbelief.
I peer nosily into a second hand vintage shop where the owner is sitting in a rocking chair, smoking a cigar. Rings of smoke blur his face; in fact the whole surroundings smell of musty smoke mingled with a faint stench of alcohol. Everything is covered in a sheet of feathery dust and I flick through a card stand, spinning it around, trying to find something meaningful, or poetic. I buy a 50 cent black and white postcard of an abandoned guitar sitting on the metro. There’s something beautifully nostalgic about the picture but I can’t put my finger on why.
My phone vibrates in my pocket and my heart momentarily stops. I nervously giggle to myself, trying not to share my sentiments with the rest of the world. I wait a few minutes before opening the message, focusing on quelling my overactive delight
…
continued...
I put on yesterday’s clothes and head out into the crisp air alone. I’m wary of becoming overly attached to my Parisian counterpart and set it upon myself to have a day to myself to ponder and regale with a friend the prior day’s events. He’s starting to occupy my mind more than is comfortable and I try to knock him from my thoughts for just a second, but he keeps biting back more aggressively. I look at my reflection in a shop window, my hair slightly frazzled and my rosy cheeks accentuating my red locks. I helplessly try to mend my appearance, embarrassed by my ‘bed head’. I really should have brought a hairbrush. The cold, fresh air is jarring to my lungs and walking past a crepe stand I see a man with a comic moustache and a wide smile who perches over freshly made pancake batter. I stop for a moment and order myself one for the journey home, covered in lashings of creamy nutella. It starts dripping out of the bottom of the flimsy cardboard holder so I lick the underneath, smearing it all over my face. A passerby stops and stares in disbelief.I peer nosily into a second hand vintage shop where the owner is sitting in a rocking chair, smoking a cigar. Rings of smoke blur his face; in fact the whole surroundings smell of musty smoke mingled with a faint stench of alcohol. Everything is covered in a sheet of feathery dust and I flick through a card stand, spinning it around, trying to find something meaningful, or poetic. I buy a 50 cent black and white postcard of an abandoned guitar sitting on the metro. There’s something beautifully nostalgic about the picture but I can’t put my finger on why.
My phone vibrates in my pocket and my heart momentarily stops. I nervously giggle to myself, trying not to share my sentiments with the rest of the world. I wait a few minutes before opening the message, focusing on quelling my overactive delight
…
A restless night is spent dreaming about him. We haven’t even kissed, but there’s something so wonderfully gallant about him. He strikes me as the sort of man who owns a chateau in the French countryside and spends his afternoons galloping on his various horses. I don't think I've met a more versatile creature. One who values glamour, but not excess. I create endless scenarios of us spending summer days together in the South of France, soaking up the sun on his yacht and snorkeling among the coral reefs. I picture each step; introducing him to my parents, and spending New Year with his friends. I’ve known this mysterious man for a grand total of three days but I’m already his captive. I start biting my nails.
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