Paris?”
“Of course. I’m staying with you these next few days, why shouldn’t I return the favor?”
Technically, he’s staying with his sister, not me, I think to myself as I hand Jay the corkscrew and watch him open the bottle effortlessly (everything he does seems effortless).
Then again: a free place to stay in Paris. Hard to resist.
I pull out two wineglasses. “I’ll think about it.”
“Let me tempt you further.” He pours our wine. “I live in Montmartre, right in the middle of the eighteenth arrondissement,” he says in such lilting French, I want to grab him by his loosened silk tie, pull him to my room, and have my way with him immediately. “On your first day, we could hit the French market in the late morning, I’ll make us some jambon blanc et fromage sandwiches, and we’ll do a picnic at the Parc du Champ de Mars, next to the Eiffel Tower. Then we’ll head to the Musée d’Orsay, which if you ask me is even better than the Louvre, and check out the Monets, the Manets, and the Gauguins. I remember years ago you had this coffee mug of Monet’s Water Lilies painting. You should see it in person. It’s incredibly soothing. I could stand there and stare at it for hours.”
He remembered that mug? I loved that mug. Whatever happened to that mug? “Ummm … Well, I…”
Jay continues to entice me in more ways than one. “For dinner, we have an abundance of choices. After all, it’s Paris. There’s this wonderful little place I go to called L’Escargot Montorgueil, obviously in Montorgueil, that, yes, has the best snails you’ve ever eaten, but also a beef fillet you would love. Or if you like chateaubriand, we could go to Le Tastevin. Or there’s an amazing little boîte in the Latin Quarter—”
“Have you ever been to the restaurant in the Eiffel Tower?” I ask him excitedly.
Jay pauses for a second, which makes me self-conscious.
I quickly backtrack. “I just … I know it’s lame, but I’ve always wanted to eat at the Eiffel Tower. It’s sort of a bucket-list thing.”
“You mean the one on the first floor, or the Jules Verne?”
“Um … the Jules Verne?” I guess, not having any idea which one I mean.
Jay hands me my glass of red. “I have not, but it sounds perfect. Then we end the night with drinks and a cheese course at the bar at George V, then go back to my apartment, where we’ll split a bottle of your favorite something in front of the fireplace. And that’s just day one.”
Shit, I could never afford all of that , I think to myself. But instead I say, “Don’t you have a girlfriend who would be mad if I was there?”
Jay cocks his head, confused. “Does Seema think I have a girlfriend?”
“Oh. No, I just … I mean, looking at you, I kind of always assume you have a girlfriend.”
“No,” Jay promises me, furrowing his brow as though trying to decipher how I could have come up with such an odd conclusion. “When our parents came out last fall, I did introduce them to Jacqueline. But we weren’t a real item or anything. She was mostly doing me a favor. You know how moms get when you’re in your midthirties and there are no grandchildren on the horizon.”
I do indeed. Something tells me that for men it’s more of an annoyance. With women, we take it to heart, decide there must be something inherently wrong with us, then get even more depressed than our mothers.
Jay swirls the wine in his glass, leans in to sniff it, then takes a sip. “Not bad, but I think we should give it ten minutes to open up.” He gently takes my hand and cheerfully pulls me toward the living room. “Let’s go make out on the couch for a while.”
I grab my glass and allow myself to be pulled to the couch, knowing he’s not the least bit serious. Jay has had opportunities to have his way with me since we were young, and other than a kiss hello in college on the lips (which has, sadly, turned into a kiss on each cheek since he moved to Europe), I am chaste
“Of course. I’m staying with you these next few days, why shouldn’t I return the favor?”
Technically, he’s staying with his sister, not me, I think to myself as I hand Jay the corkscrew and watch him open the bottle effortlessly (everything he does seems effortless).
Then again: a free place to stay in Paris. Hard to resist.
I pull out two wineglasses. “I’ll think about it.”
“Let me tempt you further.” He pours our wine. “I live in Montmartre, right in the middle of the eighteenth arrondissement,” he says in such lilting French, I want to grab him by his loosened silk tie, pull him to my room, and have my way with him immediately. “On your first day, we could hit the French market in the late morning, I’ll make us some jambon blanc et fromage sandwiches, and we’ll do a picnic at the Parc du Champ de Mars, next to the Eiffel Tower. Then we’ll head to the Musée d’Orsay, which if you ask me is even better than the Louvre, and check out the Monets, the Manets, and the Gauguins. I remember years ago you had this coffee mug of Monet’s Water Lilies painting. You should see it in person. It’s incredibly soothing. I could stand there and stare at it for hours.”
He remembered that mug? I loved that mug. Whatever happened to that mug? “Ummm … Well, I…”
Jay continues to entice me in more ways than one. “For dinner, we have an abundance of choices. After all, it’s Paris. There’s this wonderful little place I go to called L’Escargot Montorgueil, obviously in Montorgueil, that, yes, has the best snails you’ve ever eaten, but also a beef fillet you would love. Or if you like chateaubriand, we could go to Le Tastevin. Or there’s an amazing little boîte in the Latin Quarter—”
“Have you ever been to the restaurant in the Eiffel Tower?” I ask him excitedly.
Jay pauses for a second, which makes me self-conscious.
I quickly backtrack. “I just … I know it’s lame, but I’ve always wanted to eat at the Eiffel Tower. It’s sort of a bucket-list thing.”
“You mean the one on the first floor, or the Jules Verne?”
“Um … the Jules Verne?” I guess, not having any idea which one I mean.
Jay hands me my glass of red. “I have not, but it sounds perfect. Then we end the night with drinks and a cheese course at the bar at George V, then go back to my apartment, where we’ll split a bottle of your favorite something in front of the fireplace. And that’s just day one.”
Shit, I could never afford all of that , I think to myself. But instead I say, “Don’t you have a girlfriend who would be mad if I was there?”
Jay cocks his head, confused. “Does Seema think I have a girlfriend?”
“Oh. No, I just … I mean, looking at you, I kind of always assume you have a girlfriend.”
“No,” Jay promises me, furrowing his brow as though trying to decipher how I could have come up with such an odd conclusion. “When our parents came out last fall, I did introduce them to Jacqueline. But we weren’t a real item or anything. She was mostly doing me a favor. You know how moms get when you’re in your midthirties and there are no grandchildren on the horizon.”
I do indeed. Something tells me that for men it’s more of an annoyance. With women, we take it to heart, decide there must be something inherently wrong with us, then get even more depressed than our mothers.
Jay swirls the wine in his glass, leans in to sniff it, then takes a sip. “Not bad, but I think we should give it ten minutes to open up.” He gently takes my hand and cheerfully pulls me toward the living room. “Let’s go make out on the couch for a while.”
I grab my glass and allow myself to be pulled to the couch, knowing he’s not the least bit serious. Jay has had opportunities to have his way with me since we were young, and other than a kiss hello in college on the lips (which has, sadly, turned into a kiss on each cheek since he moved to Europe), I am chaste
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