In The Mind's Eye

"The Synagogue At Carpentras"

     Fred kept his eye on the cracked antique blue in the ceiling.  The paint was new, and the cracks had been created artfully.  He hated this faux atmosphere.  Everything done to meet the expectations of the American tourists.

    As he focused his eyes on the cracks in the ceiling, he ran his hand lightly along Cheryl’s perfect skin, tracing a line from her shoulder to her hip.  Cheryl twitched her knee briefly, but returned quickly to her quiet sleep.  Fred thought not so much about her but of the perfect warmth of her skin against his cool fingers.

    But then he quickly forced her niceness out.  He hated the niceness.  Wouldn’t it be nice?  Things could be nicer.  Well, it’s bee pretty nice, so far.  Oh, and have a nice day.  And so on.   That seemed to be the adult litany these days.  And Cheryl was its pastor.  She was nice.  No, she was more than that.  More like fine.  Artistically, like a sculptor’s fine choice of white marble.  So excellently formed and selected, the marble fairly softens under the awestruck gaze of the observer.  That was how people met Cheryl.  They observed and appraised her beauty, measured it to assure themselves of its excellence.  They, however, lacked Fred’s investment, Fred’s risk.  And Cheryl thought it was all simply nice.

    She stretched. Removed his hand from her hip and turned her mouth to his ear.

    “Let’s try it.  Quickly.  Right now, right here.”

    Fred raised his right wrist, twisted it inward and peered at the digital watch.  Cheryl wasn’t surprised.  He always had to establish context when he faced possible spontaneity.  That is why they are in this bed in this place, she remembered.

    “What about Nimes?  We‘re due there for the bullfights.  By the time we get ready and check out, we’ll just have time to get there and find the coliseum.”  His wrist dropped, and his eyes returned to the ceiling.

    Cheryl paused, thought for a moment.  Her effort faded.

    “Aren’t you forgetting something?” she asked.

    “What?”

    “Didn’t we agree to relax and forget schedules?”

    Oh no.  He couldn’t forget.  After all, hadn’t it been his decision?  That was her take on it.  He had halted in the shade of the arcade on the Rue de Rivoli, as the slim beauty of Paris glided past him.  He didn’t want to be there anymore.  He wanted to be back in the harsh comfort of Cleveland.  Its garish, vaulted arcade always soothed his solitary lunchtime strolls, its people repulsive and real.  Cleveland’s pimps and muggers had more life than the prancing, posing stiffness in the middle of Paris.  But the trip had been only half over.  He had to endure another two weeks.  So he suggested they leave Paris, change plans, get on the Mistral, have another luxury experience for Cheryl, flee to the south of France, add some romance to their trip.  Those had been the words he knew Cheryl would grab at, and she did.  And here they were across the river from Avignon, wondering.

    “Let’s try it then,” he said flatly.

    Cheryl rolled to her side, facing away from Fred.  Everything would be the same.  Sje didn’t want it to be that way, but it would be that way.  Fred rolled into the curve of her back and ass, then wrapped his arm around her and rested his hand on her smooth breast.  Her nipple responded, poking into his palm, and she pushed back into his growing penis.  She wished something would change, that the foreign tastes and sounds, the much-touted cobalt blue of the sky would work some kind of magic.  But they weren’t part of the world’s magic.  And this would be the same as it had been at home.