Finding Paris

The Sight of Love

I walked over the green pathway leading to Cecile and Pierre’s B&B. Our Paris trip will end in five days. As I looked up at the small apartment, I remembered our first day – the confusion over our room, the Luxembourg Gardens, Thomas, the macaroons and today.

A lot had happened. Even the trees looked different. The red poppies seemed brighter than before. The small grass covering the B&B’s front porch smelled sweet. The sky looked peach and blue at the same time. It was like waking up in a dream. It felt surreal.

The small vintage and pastel-themed apartment was empty and devoid of sound. It was pretty early after all. I walked up the stairs and opened the door gently. Victor was slumped over the bed and reading The Little Prince in its French version although by the way he flipped the pages so fast, I figured he was just looking at the illustrations. He had earphones on and his back turned away from me so he didn’t notice me come in.

I tapped his shoulder and he looked at me with surprise. I threw myself in the bed as he got up.

“Where were you?” He asked as he turned around to dress up.

I turned my back on him and looked at the book.

“I met up with Thomas.”

He didn’t say a word and continued fixing his clothes and bag.

“We finally ended it,” I said nonchalantly. I browsed the pages of The Little Prince and remembered how my father always read me passages from it, how I somehow despise the rose and found solitude with the little prince like how I found it with him.

“You don’t need to tell me that if your uncomfortable talking about it, you know,” he said and he looked at me straight in the eye gesturing for me to get up as we had a long day ahead of us.

“I know. I just want to get it out there. It feels freeing.”

With that I got up and put on my gray sweater. I followed him out. We rode our bicycles in silence. Somehow, Victor’s silence about Thomas comforted me. The silence did not feel like a burden. It felt right as we drove past cream colored houses, some newly painted and others aging with time. We passed by little children on the way to the park.

Across a small house which looked old, he stopped and parked his bike at the side. I did the same and followed him to the front porch.

“I’d like a house like this,” he said with longing. “I’ve always been travelling; I never experienced how a home felt like. It was always apartments, hotels or friends’ houses. Come on.”

We continued driving past similar houses and at one point he stopped and told me to turn around. We returned to the old house he liked.

“Let’s take a picture here,” he said.

“Okay.” I held up the camera, pressed the button and out came the film with our faces developing. I looked over at Victor’s face with a smile held in place. I looked at my face. For once, I looked clear. I felt clear.

“Are you okay?” I asked him. He was growing unusually quiet and he looked quite morose.

“I’m going to miss you. Us,” he said in a whisper as if he didn’t want the world to hear. It was said in a whisper as if he never wanted to say what he said.

“What do you mean?” It was my turn not to feel okay.

“You know how my dad works in different places?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, this time he wanted us to stay together. Permanently at some place.”

I didn’t say anything. I looked at our bicycles parked on each side of us. It looked sad. I felt sad.