By the time I get my keys and finally walk through the door of my new apartment, my head is aching from spending the day in constant movement through Paris and then via train to Rouen, surrounded by the French language. I probably should have waited until after I’d had some time to settle in Rouen to go back into the city, but since I’d had to land in Paris anyway, I figured I would take some time to at least check out a few things before I went to my new home.
I put the keys down on a little ridge along the wall next to the door and lock the door behind me, shoving my rolling suitcase across the kitchen floor. The rest of the stuff I’d scavenged from my life back in the States—the stuff I couldn’t bear to part with, or let my parents hold onto for me—would come in a couple of days, but for the time being, I have clothes and a couple of pairs of shoes, my laptop and toiletries. I keep kicking the suitcase in front of me, through the kitchen and down the short hallway alongside the tiny living room, into the open door of my bedroom.
The real selling point of this place when I’d seen it online was that it was partially furnished. There was a bed, which my new landlord had been nice enough to make up for me, an armoire, a kitchen table and a battered old couch in the living room. I have water and electricity, but no internet access until I can get a France-based bank account set up first.
I won’t have to buy too many things, and for that, I can be grateful. While I’d been sitting in a cafe in Paris earlier in the day, freshly through Customs and Border Control, I’d put in my order for dishes and some cooking supplies from a company called Hema that a friend of mine recommended.
I take a moment to look around a little bit, to make sure everything is as it should be. “Actually, this place looks pretty great,” I muse out loud, taking a few minutes out of being bone-tired to appreciate my new home.
I’d been hoping to take a short trip to France before everything fell apart with Ethan. Discovering how deep his cheating went and breaking up with him had made it impossible for me to even think about starting my master’s degree in the fall. Instead, I’d talked to my parents about my trip, and they’d agreed that they’d give me cash instead of my graduation present so I could take a longer break away from the States.
After four years of studying classic, modern, and postmodern art—and making some pieces of my own—I wanted to delve into the culture that so many of my favorite artists came out of. I had spent the week between final exams and graduation getting my paperwork together for a one-year visitor visa, and applying for freelance work that I could do anywhere in the world so that I wouldn’t be completely dependent on my parents’ money.
I’d sent the Pratt Institute Graduate program admissions office a letter telling them that I was deferring my start for one year due to “personal issues” and had been advised in response that all I would have to do is submit a new application for the following year by the deadline, and I would be able to start on schedule. But now that I’m in France, I’m considering that maybe—possibly—I can at least look at applying to graduate programs here; after all, the worst they can do is tell me no.
I stand around in my kitchen, at a loss for exactly what to do with myself. I’m exhausted, but restless at the same time, and I just can’t seem to make myself do the responsible thing and go to bed. I’ve gotten into town too late to go to the store and pick up any groceries—I’ll be starving in the morning—but after a day of stuffing my face with the best fast food Paris has to offer, I’m not hungry. I still have about half of a 1.5-liter bottle of water, so if I get thirsty before I can fall asleep, at least there’s that.
As I’m pondering what to do in the middle of the night in my new apartment, I suddenly notice a light come on in a window across the alley. I probably shouldn’t stare, but I’m tired and curious, and I can’t quite help myself.
I watch as a guy appears, walking into the living room of the apartment, carrying what looks like some kind of long, tough-sided case with stickers all over it.
The guy is tall, broad across the shoulders and super muscular, wearing tattered jeans, a tight tee shirt and a leather jacket. He’s got dark hair with closely-shaved sides, and when he takes off his jacket and tosses it onto his living room couch, I notice that his heavy, muscled arms are covered in tattoos. He looks like someone out of a 1950’s motorcycle gang, some amped-up James Dean type who I have to imagine spends at least an hour at the gym every day—totally unlike my scrawny douchebag of an ex-boyfriend.
He throws himself down onto the couch and then, out of the blue, I feel a tickle in my nose and let out a huge sneeze, catching his attention. His head whips around and, in a split second, we lock eyes.
I see his eyebrows go up, and it’s like the spell has lifted. I feel the blood rushing to my face as I realize I’ve been caught staring, and start to head into the living room, though there’s not really anything for me to do there without internet or cable. Oh, God. I’m such a freaking idiot, I tell myself.
I try to talk myself out of the deep embarrassment I feel, and start pacing the living room, my heart pounding in my chest, more restless than ever.
Just then, I catch a fleeting glimpse of movement out of the corner of my eye, and turn my head to see my neighbor from across the narrow alleyway standing at another window in his living room, right across from the one I’m closest to. His window is open and he’s waving his thickly muscled arms, presumably to get my attention.
Oh, God, how can this get any worse? I think about just closing the curtains over my own window and making a dash to my bedroom, but he’s already seen me.
He knows I’ve seen him.
He waves his massive arms again, one eyebrow raised, and my curiosity wins out over my embarrassment. There’s a little hand-lever on one side of my window, and after fumbling with it a few times, I realize which way to turn it to be able to pull it open, almost like a door.
“Oooh-ooh,” the man calls out. “Vous avez passé un bon voyage?” It takes my tired, scrambled brain a minute to process the question. “Vous êtes le nouveau locataire, non?” That gives me a little more trouble, but I finally translate it all in my mind. Did you have a good trip? You’re the new tenant, right?
“Oui—oui, je...j’ai passé un bon voyage,” I call back, confirming that yes, I had a good trip. “Tu—no, vous. Connaissez-vous Claude?” My tongue tries to rebel and mess up my pronunciation, but I manage to get the words out, mostly, as I ask him if he knows my landlord, Claude.
“Ah, ouais, je le connais bien,” the man says. Oh, yeah, I know him well, I translate mentally. “Il est génial.” He’s great.
“Ouais, n'est-ce pas?” I reply in agreement. What else do we have to talk about? I feel weird, especially since the guy’s deep voice is surprisingly smooth, and I can’t help but wonder what it would be like to be fluent enough to talk to him in an actual conversation instead of this awkwardly-strained small talk we’re exchanging. “Comment vous appelez vous?” What’s your name? It’s a stupid question, but at least it’s a normal stupid question.
“Je suis Jacques,” he says. “Et toi?” Apparently, there’s no real rule for when someone shifts between tu and vous, I think to myself.
“Je m’appelle Nora,” I answer. Now I’m really out of things to say. “Je dois…” I try to think of what the right verb is and realize that I’m using the wrong conjugation anyway. “Je devrais aller me coucher,” I say, trying to sound apologetic as I tell him I should go to bed.
“Ah, bon—tu as eu une longue journée,” Jacques says. Oh, right. You’ve had a long day.
How does he know? I want to shake my head at myself as I realize that if he knows my landlord, Claude has probably mentioned me to this guy, and that it would be obvious it was a long day for me, just getting there at night.
“Ah…” I lick my lips and try to think of what it is you say to end a conversation politely. “Bonne soirée.” I wish him good night, giving Jacques a quick smile. God, I’m such a tool.
“A toi aussi,” You too. Jacques takes my way of saying good night as just the normal thing, and as embarrassing and awkward as the whole situation is, I pat myself on the back, realizing that I’ve somehow successfully made my way through all of the conversations I’ve had in French today. No wonder my brain feels like someone’s been poking it with a hot stick. I manage to get the window closed, draw the curtain and wander into my bedroom.
“Okay, it’s been a ridiculous day, and you need to just get out of your travel clothes, clean up a bit, and go to bed,” I tell myself, scrubbing at my face with my hands. I want to believe that I’ve been feeling better ever since I moved off campus and put hundreds—then thousands—of miles between me and Ethan, but I’m still trying to make sense of what happened.
I start to strip off my clothes and toss them on the floor. In the back of my mind, ever since I found out about Ethan cheating on me, a little voice has been saying that it was because I wasn’t good enough; I wasn’t hot enough, or kinky enough, or something enough for him to be faithful to me. No matter how many times I keep telling myself that it has nothing to do with me—that Ethan is just a disgusting, sorry excuse for a human being—I can’t quite shake the feeling. All that time we’d been together, he’d at least made some kind of show of being in love with me, of being committed to me. Shouldn’t I have figured it out on my own? Shouldn’t I have known something was wrong?
I shake off the idea yet again and open my suitcase to get to my bath towel and toiletries. I drape the towel around me and walk from my bedroom to the bathroom. When I lose my grasp on one end of the towel for a brief moment, I quickly grab it and wrap it around myself tightly, glancing at the window that still has the curtains open in the living room. My new neighbor across the alley seems to have left, though the light is still on in his living room.
I dart into the bathroom and spend more time than I would want to admit figuring out the shower. There’s a kitchen sink-type faucet hanging over the tub, and a handheld sprayer and shower head that has a mounting up above my head but sits on the bar with the hot and cold water knobs. Finally, I figure out the right temperature and set my towel on the sink for when I’m done.
You have to admit, though, he’s pretty hot—at least from a distance, anyway. An image of the brawny, tattooed man across the alley reconstructs itself in my mind. It’s been a little over a month since I broke up with Ethan, and I don’t think I’m ready to get involved with anyone, but what harm is there in a little fantasy?
I lather up my coconut-scented shower gel and spread the bubbles over my arms and shoulders, down over my breasts, and wonder what a guy like Jacques would be like in bed. He’s so hot that I have to think his hands would be all over someone in an instant—in this case, in my little fantasy, me—pulling and kneading and rubbing with the insistence of a hungry animal, almost greedy for more. I imagine he’d nibble and nip at my sensitive skin and reach down between my legs, stroking me, and as I’m imagining it, I find myself mimicking what his powerful hands would be doing.
But then, even as I’m getting more and more turned on by my own imagination, I stop. Am I really standing here in the shower touching myself to the thought of some guy I only just met, who I know nothing at all about? I shake my head and rinse myself off, keeping it quick so I’m not tempted to lapse into more self-fondling.
I turn off the water and dry myself off, but by the time I’m padding back into my room, I can’t be bothered to put on pajamas. I just climb between the brand-new sheets on my bed, curl up under the fluffy cotton duvet, and in a matter of minutes, I’m fast asleep.