21 Nov 2012

6 Shades of Paris

6th installment

continued...

http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4C74nj3QF_8/T2kkKoHczBI/AAAAAAAAAqM/XNUsJtGIFTA/s1600/frizzyhair.jpgI 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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