That week in July

Cette semaine de juillet is the first thing I spotted in his diary. So he remembered it just as well as I did. There wasn't enough time to read through the finer details. I heard the chain flush in the bathroom and scrambled the pieces of paper back together before he could see that I'd been snooping around. It was hard to believe that a year later I was here with him again, although this time was different.

He returned to the breakfast table. His tousled dark hair freshly groomed from his hands running through the top. His tanned skin, the effects of a winter climbing glaciers in the Swiss Alps.

"More coffee?" he asked.

I shook my head. Two cups down and I was already feeling the effects of the caffeine. I hadn't been back to France since last summer and I'd already forgotten how different the  mornings were here. We could hear the bustle of the Paris streets from the open balcony doors but there was still a sense of calm.

One thing that wasn't calm was my mind- last night was still running fast through every inch of my imagination. I wasn't sure if my spinning head was a result of the sex, that I had in fact wished for for the past year, or the mixture of alcohol and coffee now coursing through my veins.

The French sure like to drink. I studied Henri as he added two sugars to his coffee. He liked it sweet, I thought. I wasn't sure that was my personality.
"I better go".  I could hear the guilt in my own voice. It was awkward. There was none of the movie romance that you might expect after the night we shared. I got up from the table as Henri's hand clasped onto mine hitting my palm down to the wood. "Stay, let me show you Paris."

"I've seen Paris" I responded my eyes rolling and a backwards smile forming on my face, feeling like I'd already been engulfed by the city.

"You haven't seen it my way." Henri had that French charm, the kind you associate with the city of love. The country is full of romantics and it didn't help that the French seemed to be famed for their love affairs. The fact that I was about to get embroiled in all of that, scared me a little.

I'd come to Paris a few nights previous. It was a work trip that had turned mostly into pleasure. I mean, the French seem to do as little work as possible, pretending they are discussing business over a 2 hour long lunch. It didn't seem a bad way of living to me. At least it was certainly less stressful than my time in the London office. I'd only started my job at La Vie Properties a few months ago. I was part of their social media team, travelling to properties and taking videos in the hope that people will want to visit.

I hadn't really wanted another job in London. In fact I hadn't really wanted to stay living in the capital. After all, that had been one of the reasons for all the arguments in my relationship with James. He loved the city life. As a die-hard banker he thrived on the early wake up calls, the coffee stops in the morning on the way to the tube, only to then be jam packed like sardines into a metal carriage in the stifling heat. You name a commuter stereotype and James was it entirely. He'd grab a metro newspaper on the way into the station just to look that extra bit suave and most likely not even turn a page but instead he'd be listening to his financial podcast. Always learning. In some ways I had admired his zest to work, his love of his job certainly made up for the lack of motivation I had to work in the city. I'd come from the countryside. Somerset had always been home to me. Late afternoon walks after work in the summer. A trip to the beauty spots with my friends for an in person venting session. These were the things I had craved since moving to the city. Somehow London seemed to smother me, rip away some of my personality.
———

As soon as I had arrived at the Gard du Nord on the train from London this week, I felt an intense urge to message Henri. We hadn't spoken since July but I wanted nothing more than to see a familiar face. I'd plucked up the courage all the way on the Eurostar to think of something remotely witty to say. The only thing I could think of was " Hey stranger, It seems France has caught me off guard again... any recommendations for the city?" This seemed totally innocent to me. However, I forgot how different French men are to English. If you sent that text in England to a friend they may come back with a list of places to go or may take 3 days to respond to you with a simple 'sorry for the delay' long after the event has passed. As I walked through the vast Parisian station my phone pinged. It was him. Henri had responded, 'Bonjour stranger. I know a place for dinner. Meet me at Terra Nera at 8'. That's where the night really started. Even though I was certain it wouldn't mean anything other than what I had expected for twelve months. There was an air of suspense for me. Thinking constantly what would happen between myself and Henri, like I had done for the past year.