wine and chatted for another hour, until I knew I had to catch the Metro before the real weirdos emerged from their holes.
As Didier bade me goodnight, my nerves returned. I opened the door to the hall, but more than I feared being spotted in a known prostitute’s threshold, I was enlivened merely to be associated with this man.
“I’d like to see you again,” I managed to say.
He smiled. “I would like that too. How is Sunday for you?”
Sunday was awful, as I had a staff meeting first thing the next day. But I also knew I’d be high as hell from whatever would come of that evening, and nothing would be able to touch me come Monday morning. “Sunday is fine. Seven?”
“Perfect. I will cook you dinner, if you like. And if you bring the wine.”
I laughed. “I’m a bit terrified to pick wine for a Frenchman.”
“And I’m a bit delighted to force you to be brave, so I insist.”
“Okay, fine.”
“You know the way out?” he asked.
I nodded.
“You have a safe trip home. It was a pleasure to meet you.”
I was prepared to shake his hand, but Didier clasped my shoulder and bent to exchange kisses on each cheek. I waved lamely and headed down the hall for the stairs, not hearing the gentle click of his door until I was well out of sight.
Sunday
The Second Visit
The wine was chosen at the urging of the pushy man who runs the liquor store near my flat, a dry red that cost slightly too much for my comfort. But I’m a simpleton when it comes to wine. The higher the price, the more adamantly I’ll convince myself I like it.
Gone were my work clothes, for my second date with Didier. I wore a dress this evening, a patterned boat-neck that’s more quirky than elegant, and forgives my broad shoulders and flatters my long neck and gangly arms. I felt positive, if not confident, as I walked up Rue des Toits Rouges. Excited if not prepared.
I rang Didier’s bell ten minutes early, no longer ashamed of appearing eager. He buzzed me in and my nerves felt different as I mounted the steps. On Thursday they’d had me edgy and dry-mouthed, but this second night I was giddy, even bubbly, blood gone from my veins and replaced with champagne.
His door swung open at my knock and Didier was as tall as I’d remembered, even more handsome in his familiarity. “Good evening, Caroly.”
“Good evening.” I handed him the wine and followed him to the threshold of his kitchen, watching as he slid my offering from its twisted bag to examine the label.
“Very nice. You spoil me.”
“I asked for a Portuguese one, and that’s what the man at the store suggested.”
“This is very fine, I’ve had it.”
“Oh good.”
“I have not started dinner, so I hope you’re not starving.”
I shook my head. “No rush.”
“Have a seat.” Didier beckoned me inside his small kitchen, pulling up a stool to the butcher-block-topped cabinet that serves as a center island. He set a glass before me as I sat, and uncorked the wine. I breathed it in, that dry, warm aroma, and studied him as he filled his own glass. He was dressed in his understated but stylish way; a crisp, cream-colored shirt rolled up to his elbows and unbuttoned to mid-chest.
“Did you ever live in Portugal?” I asked.
“No, but I visited when I was younger. Quite young, perhaps eight or nine.”
“Which part?”
“On the coast, not far from Cascais. Very pretty. Very different after only having known Paris.”
“You didn’t leave the city much?”
He shook his head. “My mother detested the countryside, even the suburbs. She was very much addicted to Paris, all the noise and excitement and crowds and attention of it. Cheers.”
I joined him in clinking our glasses and tasting my offering. “Oh, that is nice.”
He nodded. “A very good choice. I only hope my cooking does it justice.”
“You cook a lot?”
“Oh yes, though nothing too fancy. Is there anything you do not eat?”
“I’ll try anything.”
“I was going to
As Didier bade me goodnight, my nerves returned. I opened the door to the hall, but more than I feared being spotted in a known prostitute’s threshold, I was enlivened merely to be associated with this man.
“I’d like to see you again,” I managed to say.
He smiled. “I would like that too. How is Sunday for you?”
Sunday was awful, as I had a staff meeting first thing the next day. But I also knew I’d be high as hell from whatever would come of that evening, and nothing would be able to touch me come Monday morning. “Sunday is fine. Seven?”
“Perfect. I will cook you dinner, if you like. And if you bring the wine.”
I laughed. “I’m a bit terrified to pick wine for a Frenchman.”
“And I’m a bit delighted to force you to be brave, so I insist.”
“Okay, fine.”
“You know the way out?” he asked.
I nodded.
“You have a safe trip home. It was a pleasure to meet you.”
I was prepared to shake his hand, but Didier clasped my shoulder and bent to exchange kisses on each cheek. I waved lamely and headed down the hall for the stairs, not hearing the gentle click of his door until I was well out of sight.
Sunday
The Second Visit
The wine was chosen at the urging of the pushy man who runs the liquor store near my flat, a dry red that cost slightly too much for my comfort. But I’m a simpleton when it comes to wine. The higher the price, the more adamantly I’ll convince myself I like it.
Gone were my work clothes, for my second date with Didier. I wore a dress this evening, a patterned boat-neck that’s more quirky than elegant, and forgives my broad shoulders and flatters my long neck and gangly arms. I felt positive, if not confident, as I walked up Rue des Toits Rouges. Excited if not prepared.
I rang Didier’s bell ten minutes early, no longer ashamed of appearing eager. He buzzed me in and my nerves felt different as I mounted the steps. On Thursday they’d had me edgy and dry-mouthed, but this second night I was giddy, even bubbly, blood gone from my veins and replaced with champagne.
His door swung open at my knock and Didier was as tall as I’d remembered, even more handsome in his familiarity. “Good evening, Caroly.”
“Good evening.” I handed him the wine and followed him to the threshold of his kitchen, watching as he slid my offering from its twisted bag to examine the label.
“Very nice. You spoil me.”
“I asked for a Portuguese one, and that’s what the man at the store suggested.”
“This is very fine, I’ve had it.”
“Oh good.”
“I have not started dinner, so I hope you’re not starving.”
I shook my head. “No rush.”
“Have a seat.” Didier beckoned me inside his small kitchen, pulling up a stool to the butcher-block-topped cabinet that serves as a center island. He set a glass before me as I sat, and uncorked the wine. I breathed it in, that dry, warm aroma, and studied him as he filled his own glass. He was dressed in his understated but stylish way; a crisp, cream-colored shirt rolled up to his elbows and unbuttoned to mid-chest.
“Did you ever live in Portugal?” I asked.
“No, but I visited when I was younger. Quite young, perhaps eight or nine.”
“Which part?”
“On the coast, not far from Cascais. Very pretty. Very different after only having known Paris.”
“You didn’t leave the city much?”
He shook his head. “My mother detested the countryside, even the suburbs. She was very much addicted to Paris, all the noise and excitement and crowds and attention of it. Cheers.”
I joined him in clinking our glasses and tasting my offering. “Oh, that is nice.”
He nodded. “A very good choice. I only hope my cooking does it justice.”
“You cook a lot?”
“Oh yes, though nothing too fancy. Is there anything you do not eat?”
“I’ll try anything.”
“I was going to
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