It was in January. I don't have an exact recollection of that day; I only have flashbacks that come with such a storm of emotion.
I remember meeting him for the first time. He gave me the name of a bar, on a quiet street, facing a park or some small, obscure building. I have never returned and only remember searching the place in my little map book of Paris. I was late, five minutes maybe. We drank beer. He had to finish mine. I had nicely manicured nails, soft pink. I remember resorting to looking at them, at how they held that yellow liquid behind a thin sheet of transparency. When I needed to escape a moment of silence one second too long, my little nails were my refuge. I was not sure if he wanted to see me again. I was a student; he taught university economics.
The second date: a movie in a cinema on the bank of the river, an introduction to Parisian Street art. I met Invaders then. A beer in a bar followed, and we talked until late. I was still quite confident, as I typically am with people who are not potential lovers. The bar was calm, only one much older couple with us, on this evening in the middle of the week. I remember the streetlight reflecting on the river, calm as a mirror. He chose strategically, living just a few streets away. We kissed, but I don't know when. Still in the bar? Just before getting into the metro turnstile? I only feel the flashback of saying to him, "Not today... next time," before disappearing into the aerial metro station. My boots were sliding down my legs, and I kept pulling them up. I had a short dress on and kept the excitement of the kiss on my lips as I slid into bed. My life in Paris had started well.
The next time we kissed, it was with purpose in mind. I shivered when he took off my clothes. It was a good idea - to put my favourite bra on. I see the image of goosebumps as I am looking down at my body, feeling his breath on my nape. His bed was under the roof, with not much space for acrobatics. His sheets were dark beige, hugging our naked skin softly. It was then I lost my confidence.
I don't remember much else. He was ten years older, and knew what he was doing. I think I liked the intimacy. I think it felt good. I don't know if we did anything else that night. If we talked or if we fell asleep. I am not sure if I even stayed the night. I would need to check my diaries. But it was the first time living on my own, with nobody waiting for me, no accountability—I could stay the night.
A few other moments: a concert, some alternative music, a night at my place under yet another Parisian roof. Popping by his place, but not daring to knock. Missing the spontaneity of the moment. A few text messages that still cost some cents. And then the final one. He wanted a French girlfriend. Out of luck.
And then, just last week. A generic email announcing a seminar, his talk. I sent a message afterwards, with a squeeze in my stomach. He would barely remember who I am.
I had followed his life at first, bluntly. He moved to Budapest, and had a big love story with an Italian, but then she cut off ties. Now I learned that he moved to Vienna, to some private university. It looks like he has no kids, but probably a partner. Every man finishes with someone, no? He's bolder - on the head, I mean. Google shows some photos with long hair as well. A search for a new identity in a world of rather proper people, perhaps. But still a bit of punk in him. Keeps in shape, a middle-aged belly not visible. If you'd like to catch up for a coffee or a glass of wine, that would be fun—I get the answer. He searched on LinkedIn. He remembered. Maybe he thinks of the moment next to the river. Orange light shimmering in the river. That electrifying first kiss. That hope that I’d join him in bed that night. Maybe he feels excitement in his stomach, as much as I do. We meet tomorrow, over lunch. And I wonder if it will be as mystical as our first meeting. Discussing politics, and ideas, but not feelings.
In those thirteen years, my confidence returned, and I chose a different path. We were not meant to be together, not because I lacked a French upbringing. By now, I could have forgotten him, with all this happy life. But he came at a special moment in my life. Life under a roof, with a view on slate-blue roofs of Parisian hills, pigeons lazily sleeping on the chimneys. Maybe a little piece of me hopes very hard that he will have a moment of regret, for what he could have had. Silly. Or, just maybe, I like the secrecy of it, taking me out of my routine, full of love and little children. An occasion to be a woman. It is June, and I am much more confident in summer, after all. January was not the best time to foster love.
