Paris In the Rain

Chapter 3: At Second Rain

"Look for the stars, you'll say that there are none;

Look up a second time, and, one by one,

You mark them twinkling out with silvery light,

And wonder how they could elude the sight!"

~William Wordsworth

Chapter 3: At Second Rain

Sitting on a bench under a tree I tried not to cry. Le Noir Chat lay closed after my third read. No matter how many times I read it the same reaction was initiated. This heartfelt reaction was hard for me to accept. 

The story itself was a simple one: an average girl with rusty colored hair and chocolate colored eyes runs into an average man with honey colored hair, and amber eyes at the Le Noir Chat. They have coffee: then meet a lot and often. Sofia, the average girl, has trouble giving into the relationship. Adam, the average man, is frustrated. Eventually everything works out as happens in a love story and they decide to elope in Paris.

The ending was really the stickler for me. Sofia shows up at a small chapel with a short lace ivory dress she purchased from a vintage shop. Her shoes were blue. Her hair pin was borrowed from her mother who unexpectedly came to witness the nuptial. Her engagement ring was classic, prudent, and new.

The simplicity of their love is what had me sitting in the drizzle of that Friday French morning unaware droplets were coating my teal sundress. A tall man hustled by an onyx umbrella obscuring his face. His fetching tweed rain coat hid the majority of his body. I would have looked away, if not for the scent of lemongrass, nutmeg, and citrus. Immediately with abandon I followed him.

The man from the airport, it had to be him.

“Hey!” I called out, but the boom of thunder drowned out the sound. Too many people flitted about; he swept in and out of view. The gaggle was unrelenting no matter what pace I kept. I began to feel a chill. It was getting dark and I was lost now, yet I still kept after the illusive man.

“Just turn around!” Of course the thirteenth day of my journey would turn out like this. I believed I was now in Montparnasse where Hemmingway used to frequent, and probably Owen Wilson while they filmed Midnight in Paris.  I hoped I wouldn’t be spending a midnight in a similar manner as to be roaming the streets. The twists and turns the man was taking bewildered me to no end… and I felt like a stalker. Okay, I was a stalker.

I was stopped at a traffic light. He had made it through the crosswalk and turned right. I waited, and panicked, and then waited longer. When the sign indicated I may walk, I broke into a dead sprint across the painted lines on the dark puddled street. I too turned right. He had disappeared. 

A lone street light shown in the murk, and I made my way to it. I was fortunate not to be in Pigalle for I surely resembled a disarrayed prostitute under the harsh florescent. Well my dress was a little too proper for that, but still it was worrisome.

Shivering, dread washed over me as I contemplated my actions and current situation. No one passing would help my little cries of, “Pardon?”

The rain had stopped, but the air was chilling instigating more shivers. Finally a cab sighted me and I gave them Tiffani’s address in Le Quartier Latin.  Silent tears of foolishness slide down my cheeks masked by the leftover raindrops. Though I found it in me to note that the book was unscathed from the impendent rainstorm, for that I was pleased.

Within fifteen minutes I was opening the door to Tiffani’s warm flat. It was 21h45, and no one cared. Tiffani was long gone, out at some club somewhere. Shrouding sullenly to the washroom squished between Tiffani’s bedroom and the living room I began to strip. Then I hung the clothing across the rail of the off-white shower rod. The bear claw tub was also off white and aged, but inviting. I drew a steaming bath and gazed out the small paned at the clouded view of a showery Paris.

Feeling emotionally bruised, and physically cold I used the bath to thaw out as a chicken would in a sink of water. When the water was nice and tepid I realized that it was time for bed. Staggering out of the tub and stalking into the living space to find my adolescent striped pajamas, but felt very much like a crone.

I took the thick furry teal blanket on the coach and cocooned myself within it falling into a restless sleep filled with thoughts of the man and Le Chat Noir.