meet me in paris | vignettes

slowly, then all at once

I was in Italy for a week. We met every single day.

After dinner that night, you drove me home yourself in a Ferrari Italia, gleaming red and windows tinted dark, a masterpiece of Italian engineering. It was flashy. Some may say it was tacky. I think it was perfect.

As I climbed out and crossed to the steps of the hotel, you reached out the window and caught my wrist.

"When can I see you again?"

"I don't know, I thought we'd worked everything out at the meeting." I had to bite back my smile.

The look on your face, part anguish, part exasperation, part amusement, all intensity, was a vision. "You know I don't mean business."

I pretended to think about it. "I'm very busy, you know?"

"I'm sure," You said, and I could see that gleam in your eyes, the look that says you'll play my game until one of us gives up.

"I'll see where I can fit you in," I said finally. "Buona notte."

You pressed a feather-light kiss to my knuckles, and I couldn't help my sharp inhale, the giddy rush straight to my head. "Buona notte, signorina."

~*~

I woke to a text the next morning.

Are you free this evening?

I checked the time instinctively then my calendar.

I am. Why?

Your reply was instant.

It's a surprise. I'll pick you up.

Well, that certainly piqued my interest.

Any advice on what to wear?

This required a little more thought on your behalf.

Something you like.

I read that message over and over again, sneaky glances during meetings, silent contemplation in taxis, one final glance as I put my earrings in. My phone buzzed again.

I'll be there in five minutes.

You were there in three minutes, and you told me as much when I got into the passenger seat.

"I'm sorry," I said drily. "Is my attire appropriate, signore? Or should I change?"

You made no effort to hide the way your gaze over me. My skin erupted in goosebumps.

"No," You said, voice pitched low. "You look perfect, signorina."

"Thank you." My throat had gone dry, and my pulse raced. "So do you."

"I always look perfect."

Even I couldn't help but roll my eyes.

We drove past the coast, the setting sun glittering against the sea, the air finally cooling to something bearable. I could see the sun-bleached strands in the pink light, and I could've sworn that you were carved out of marble, such perfection. We stopped in front of an old villa, lit in beautiful warm lights. 

"A house?" I raised an eyebrow. "Expensive gift for a first date."

"Just wait," You told me. 

It was not just a house. It was a museum. Every piece in there was one of a kind, worth millions. You walked me through every painting, every statue, each room more magical than the next. 

It didn't feel real when we ate there, in that gilded dining hall, sipping on house red, eating fresh pasta and homegrown tomatoes. It didn't feel real when you offered me your jacket to shield my bare skin from the cool sea air. It didn't feel real when you drove me back, companionable silence and the soft croon of the radio.

"I had a lovely time. Thank you." I looked at you, shrugging your jacket off, wondering if I'd still smell faintly like your cologne in the morning.

"Thank you for letting me." Your smile was genuine and kind, and I burned it into my memory.

"Buona notte."

"Buona notte."

There were no kisses this time, but I still felt unbalanced, like my life was changing in the space between the door of your car and my bed. Now, I don't doubt that it did.