Joy

I should stop. I really should stop. I can’t even blame it on the accent this time. After all, you can’t hear an accent over text messages.

Besides, his texts aren’t even terribly naughty.

They’re funny.

Even when he teases me.

He texted me on Friday night, sending me photos of everyday objects with their French and English translations. A streetlamp. A bicycle. A billboard with the word Saperlipopette.

Griffin: Obviously, this means gadzooks.

Joy: Clearly. What else could it mean?

Griffin: Here’s another. Loufoquerie. It means clowning around.

Joy: Are you trying to teach me French words I’m least likely to ever need? Because the contacts and the croissant translations were helpful, but how do you expect me to use loufoquerie?

Griffin: Oh, ye of little faith. Let me give you an example. “It’s a Friday night full of all sorts of loufoquerie and you should be loufouquering with my friends and me.”

Yes, that one sounded dirty. Very dirty. I might have spent some time in bed that night thinking about loufoquering Griffin, and I don’t mean clowning around.

Now, it’s Sunday morning, and I’m off to meet Elise. Her blog and its descriptions of perfumes have expanded my mind—she never says this smells like an iris, but instead she’d write one whiff and you’ll be tending to a window box full of freshly blooming irises, their petals carrying a hint of a warm spring breeze. I take a small sampler tube of Linger, a rare brand, since it was discontinued a decade ago, and I tie a silver bow around it. I can’t arrive empty-handed. That would be rude.

I drop the gift into my purse, and a new text winks up at me on my phone. I slide it open, and it does funny things to my chest and to my belly. Butterflies flutter all around.

Griffin: Bonjour.

It’s not even the word. It’s that he texted me good morning.

It’s going to be a hard three months.

Correction. Two months and three weeks.

Joy: Bonjour to you, too! How did I do with that? Admit it, you’re impressed.

Griffin: So very impressed. Next, you’ll be telling me you bought scissors and a laundry-drying rack with ease.

As I head to the metro station, I feel a little sheepish. I didn’t accomplish any errands yesterday. I spent the day exploring my arrondissement and eating ice cream.

Once I’m safely inside the metro—yay for sparse Sunday morning traffic and Converse sneakers—I tell Griffin.

Joy: I spent the day exploring. I avoided errands. I ate ice cream. It wasn’t as good as I’d hoped. The ice cream, that is.

Griffin: I’m an expert at avoiding errands. I can’t believe you didn’t call me for errand-avoiding company. Also, the best ice cream is on Île de la Cité. Have you been yet?

Joy: No. But now I’m fantasizing about a cone.

Griffin: Today. Four p.m. Berthillon. Your fantasy comes true.

The smile that spreads across my face is wide and radiant. It’s not a date. It’s nothing at all like a date. It’s a friendly outing.

And I can’t wait.

Joy: In that case, I’ll be there. Assuming I don’t botch the subway again. I tried to go to the Louvre yesterday and wound up at Moulin Rouge.

Griffin: Seems someone was looking out for you. :) The Louvre is overrated.

Indeed. I drop my phone in my purse and sit back on the subway seat, rattling underground all the way to Place D’Abbesses, where I exit at the famous Montmartre stop. I’m six stories underground, and since that’s a piece of cake to me these days thanks to my Uneven 84, I take the spiral steps all the way up to street level, where the famous umbrella-like green awning of the metro stop awaits.

I stare at it and snap a photo. I post it with a #favoritesinParis, then head to Place du Tertre, where the caricaturists gather. I glance at my watch. I’m meeting Elise in thirty minutes. This spot is so ridiculously touristy, and I can’t resist. One of the caricaturists makes eye contact, and I remember my French words.

“How much?” I ask in his language.

“Ten euros.”

I’m ready to pump a fist. I can do this. Oh là là.

My sister will get a kick out of this caricature. I take a seat and he begins chatting. In French. I don’t understand a word he’s saying. I pretend he’s telling me I have a very expressive face and a fantastic smile, and he admires my adventuresome spirit so much. Not everyone would venture up to Montmartre by herself, but here you are braving a new city, experiencing all it has to offer. Don’t worry about the ex. You did what you could. You helped where you could. Not everyone wants to be helped, you know?

He raises an eyebrow, waiting for an answer as he sketches.

“Oui. C’est vrai,” I reply. Yes, that’s true.

After all, I’m having a pretend conversation with him. I might as well answer what I imagine him asking.

I know it was hard to finally say good-bye, but you’d tried so many times before, and besides, you were stuck, he was stuck, and he refused to get help for his addiction. Once he was injured at work and hurt his back, you did everything you could to help him recover. You took him to doctors. You took him to endless doctors’ appointments. You sought out every possible treatment for him. But the only option he wanted was more and more OxyContin. And then another pill, another, and then another. You tried to get him help, but he didn’t want it. Besides, you weren’t in love with him anymore. You hadn’t been for a whole year, since before he fell off a ladder. You can only try for so long until there is no more trying to do.

“Oui?” The man smiles at me, asking me his question.

“Oui.” I return his grin, though I’ve no idea what he asked.

“Voilà!” He presents me with my caricature, and I laugh at the elongated chin and huge lips, and my hair that looks like windswept curtains. My eyes are huge—saucers in my face.

“Beautiful,” he says, and I understand him.

“Thank you.”

I pay him, roll up the drawing, and tuck it into my cavernous purse as I leave the square with the café, turning onto a curvy street that climbs the hills in Montmartre. Breathing deeply, I let the scent of the ivy that curls over the walls of a brick home on my path flood my nose. The street bends, and I imagine Picasso himself walking these roads. I’m hardly an artist, but sometimes I craft scents and seductive compositions, and I suppose that’s the closest I come to making art.

As the street bends once more, a heavy green door etched with curling ironwork panels comes into view.

That must be Elise’s home. A dual citizen, Elise has lived in Paris for several years now. She was born in Manhattan to French parents and raised in New York City. But she returned to the City of Light several years ago and can move seamlessly among the French and Americans, from what I’ve gathered.

I reach the door and ring, and soon a voice floats over the buzzer.

“Come in.”

The emerald-green wooden door spills into a courtyard teeming with yellow tulips. I’ve gained entry to a secret lair simply because I have the passcode—a love of perfume. The door swings open, and a pretty, petite brunette with black glasses and high cheekbones steps out and tosses her arms around me.

“My new American friend in Paris,” she declares, the sleeves of her maroon top fluttering.

“Hello, my new French–American friend in Paris. Your courtyard is gorgeous,” I say, once I untangle myself.

She waves a hand dismissively. “I do a little gardening.”

I hold up my thumb and forefinger. “Just a little.”

She ushers me inside, and bless her, she has a bottle of champagne on the living room table.

I think I love her.

* * *

Two hours later, I’m buzzed, happy, and laughing.

“Try this one,” she says as she reaches for a bottle on the marble table in her living room. A delicate tray hosts several vials and tubes of her favorites. “It’s Euphoria.”

“Will it make me feel amazing?”

“It will make anyone want to seduce you. No man is powerful enough to resist this scent.”

“Why? Does it smell like pizza and beer?” I ask, thinking Richard was weirdly powerful enough to resist all pretty scents. He curled his nose up at them, covering his nostrils, asking me to please, please, please never wear perfume in the house. It gave him a headache.

She slaps her hand on her thigh. “You’re very funny.” She hands me the bottle. “Here you go.”

I’ve already washed off the ones I’ve tried on so far, so my wrists are bare when she spritzes some on. I bring my hand to my nose and inhale. “Mmm. It’s a tropical garden, and I’ve just strolled past a mango tree, where the fruit hangs low and ripe.”

She whistles her appreciation. “You need to write my blog for me.”

“Well, you don’t want me to say something simple, like it smells like mangoes,” I say drily. “Your blog taught me better.”

“The best perfumes take you on a trip. They whisk you away to a place, to a time, to a memory.”

I sigh happily, picturing a tropical island while I’m in her very French, very rich home. Elise owns an advertising agency. The perfume blog she writes in her spare time.

“I was worried,” I admit with a contented sigh.

“About what?”

“Would we get along? Would you be snooty? Would I be a terrible guest, since my French is abysmal?”

“You’ll get there, and of course we get along. We share a love. And you are wonderful and not a douche. Did you like my American word? See, I haven’t been gone too long from the United States.”

“Just say douchecanoe and you’ll be good to go at proving your dual citizenship.”

“Douchecanoe,” she says with the most impeccable French accent, and we both crack up.

“Brilliant.”

“Merci. And how are you liking Paris? You must be fighting off all the French men all the time.”

I scoff. “No, not at all. I haven’t even had so much as a French kiss.”

“You’ve come to the most romantic city in the world, and you haven’t even kissed in the City of Light?” Incredulity is her new middle name.

“There’s no one.” But an image of the handsome man I spend half my days with flashes before me. I can feel my lips curve in a grin as I imagine Griffin’s handsome face.

Elise must catch my expression because she arches a brow curiously. “Are you sure?”

I inch closer, even though we’re alone. “Well, my work translator is a total fox.”

She laughs. “Fox. Do tell.”

I spill all about Griffin. How we met. Our rapport. Even the texts he sent.

“British and French. He sounds delicious. You should take a lover,” she says, then raises her glass.

I nearly spit out the bubbly. “Take a lover?”

She nods, her expression fiercely certain. “Yes. You are attracted to him. He’s attracted to you. It makes perfect sense to me.”

I shake my head, bemused. “You’re so French.”

“Why not do it?”

“We work together. It would be complicated when it ends, and it always ends.”

“Then don’t complicate it. That’s what we do well here. We’ve learned to take our pleasures—our wine, our perfume, our chocolates. Eat them, savor them—enjoy them. You never know what tomorrow brings. We should enjoy every day, and eat it like a fruit.”

“If that’s the case, I want my days to taste like peaches.”

She wiggles an eyebrow. “You should eat a banana.”

I laugh. “You’re going to be a very bad influence on me.”

“I might be. But you won’t regret great sex. Seriously? Have you ever regretted great sex?”

I set my glass down. “It’s been so long since I’ve had it, I’m not sure I remember enough to regret.”

“That saddens me so much I need another glass,” she says, grabbing the bottle and offering me some.

I wave her off. “I shouldn’t have any more.” I glance at the time. “I need to take off. I have to meet Griffin for ice cream.”

“Where? Berthillon?”

I smile. “How did you know?”

“It’s only the best in Paris. He probably wants to feed you ice cream and get you in bed.”

“Is that a thing here? Ice cream and sex?”

She nods sagely. “Like I said, we love our pleasures in France.”

I point at her. “You’re trouble, Elise. Total trouble.”

She smiles. “Of course I am. Maybe you need trouble. Maybe you’ve spent the last few years doing what you thought you should, and now it’s time to do what you want.”

I blink and square my shoulders, surprised she can read me so easily. “How can you tell?”

“I can see it in your eyes.”

I take a beat before I answer. “You might be right.”

When I leave, I can’t help but wonder how right she is. If I should pursue more. I know, rationally, it would be a mistake, but with all this champagne and perfume in my head, everything feels possible.