bistro

Peter (my bf) and I were in Paris, about three weeks ago (I was on Spring break, he was on vacation from work). ‘Headstart for Happiness,’ by ‘the Style Council,’ was playing low somewhere. “This is the kind of starry winter night that guy from the Netherlands used to paint,” I observed. “If you were writing about it,” he asked, “how would you describe it?” “Imagine a deep, still blue, hosting a field of luminescent light scatter, and a bashful moon, low in the sky, as if it were hiding in the trees.” I guessed. “It’ll moonset soon,” he said “within the hour.” he added. “I never think of moonsets.” I said, looking at the sky like it was new. “The moon follows the line of the ecliptic,” he said, as if that meant something, “more or less,” he qualified. “To think I grew up under an undifferentiated sky,” I marveled. When I’m with him, I can relax, I don’t have to be-on, he’s smart enough. Of course, I’d come in handy if he went into cardiac arrest or started choking on something. Like puppets dance, we often mimic lines - I don’t know why. We were sitting side by side, outside ‘Le Café du Marché,’ a bistro near the Eiffel Tower. Our waiter, Léo, had just refilled our coffee. It was 9:30 PM and we’d been at this table for about two hours. We’d reduced the tarte-tatin to a few crumbs forty minutes ago, but Léo knows me and although they're thirty tourists in line for tables, he won’t rush us. “I was stalking you,” I confided, running a finger along his long-sleeve shirt-cuff. “I was stalking you,” He said. Our eyes were fixed on each other. “No, seriously,” I said, moving in much closer, to be serious. “No, seriously,” He deadpanned back. “Then I caught you,” I went on, and I was very close now, our lips maybe two inches apart. “No, I caught you,” he said, smiling as I got very close. “It was sexual Jujitsu,” he softly bragged. “Wax on, wax off,” I said before I stole a quick kiss. Peter was shocked, a scooch, by French teens. If French teens have a crush, especially in Paris, it’s a ‘drop what you’re doing,’ snog-fest - between classes in the hall, on-the-metro, in a coffee shop or grocery store they go-all-in, because love must be stormy, urgent, tinchy. Here’s a secret. Peter says, “You suck my face, like no one ever has.” It must be the French in me. Ha! Of course, I learned all I know about love from Taylor Swift. Let’s see, first, I must be willing to let down my guard - because love can happen at any time. Love, at its best, is overwhelming, mistake prone, meaningful and powerful - but I can’t assume it’ll last, because my lover may have ulterior motives. I could be hurt or changed by the experience - but I’ll have the memories. Eventually though, I’ll heal enough to try again - with a new set of expectations. Maybe I’ll even write a song or a poem about it. . . . notes… tarte-tatin = an apple tart with caramelized apples on the bottom, flaky pastry on top. YUM scooch = a little stormy = extremely passionate tinchy = twitchy, reflexive