The Fighter

Chapter 44: Paris

We had decided that our last day would be filled with Parisian clichés. We wanted to sit in tiny cafés with views of the Eiffel tower. We wanted to eat croissants and baguettes and escargot. We wanted to wear berets and striped shirts while reading Descartes and pondering our existence. 

The universe had decided that it would sprinkle some snow over the two of us as we made our way to a café near our hotel. We smiled at each other, already feeling as if we had roots in the place we had used to temporarily leave another. Perhaps we were rooted to the fantastical reality we had created for ourselves there. 

The power to create, it seemed, was what we craved, the power to change what made us unhappy, and make the life the both of us wanted.

Inside, the café was playing French pop. Young people were collected here and there, reading books, drinking coffees, laughing. Idle chatter filled all the corners that dangling plants didn't. 

"Deux espressos s'il vous plaît," Xavier said to the waiter. 

I smiled at the thought of one last espresso, which I had grown an affinity for in the short time we had spent in Paris. Perhaps it felt like the perfect metaphor for the trip, short and bitter, lasting just long enough to taste it, its essence lingering for our entire chat.

Xavier had placed both his hands on the tiny circular table, inviting me to grab on. We gazed lovingly into each other's eyes, letting the world move in blurred circles around us. 

"For you," said the red-lipped waitress when she arrived with our espressos. She placed a tray of tiny cakes on the table. "The owner, she likes to treat lovers." 

I looked up in daze. Lovers.

"Merci, thank you," Xavier said. 

The waitress shook her head. "As if you need more of life's pleasures." And then she walked away briskly.

Both Xavier and I shared a perturbed glance. "What's wrong with some free cake?" I said.

Xavier laughed and this restrained, beautiful noise floated from his lips. "It's nice to have someone actually envy my position." He shrugged. "Never really happened to me after the cancer, and my dad... and the soul-crushing depression."

I bit my lip. "Should I call her back? Maybe we could get some more envy out of her, get our money's worth?" 

He squeezed my hands and shook his head. "Sophie Edna Taylor, you are so different from who I thought you were."

I looked down toward my lap. 

"I find something new to love about you every day." He rasped encouragingly. 

I glanced up and his brilliant eyes were taking me in. "You like that I'm mean?" 

"Love it." 

We spent the better part of the day chatting over coffee-stained cups and dainty disappearing cakes. The two of us never wanted to leave, and the sadness at the thought of it all ending seeped into everything like water. 

***

Later, we dragged our duvets up to the rooftop of the hotel. In the summer, I imagined the garden and lounge was full of life, but in the winter, it was empty and echoing with the depressing notion that we were in the right place at the wrong time. 

"So...what was your favorite part of Paris?" I asked clumsily as we lied, sandwiched between our duvets, facing the dimming sky.

He was quiet for a minute giving me the chance to listen to his breathing, my head rising and falling with his chest. "The Louvre. I liked watching you read the map, I liked getting lost." He stroked my head. "What about you?"