Joy

It would be a bald-faced, big-ass lie if I looked in the mirror and said my eyes looked great. Today, they most decidedly do not. But that’s what makeup is for. To cover the tears I shed on my rooftop last night. Of course I cried. Fat, salty tears. Of course I’m sad. Like someone punched a hole in my heart.

Of course I need Jackie O sunglasses today.

And yet, I’m not miserable.

I’m not devastated. I’ve had enough time to cry.

I’ve been processing the end of us since we began. We fell in love while we were breaking apart. We were simultaneously coming and going. Maybe, when you live through a bittersweet love, it makes the ending easier.

As Elise would say, some relationships only last for the blink of an eye, but that doesn’t make them any less worthwhile.

It was worth it. Every moment was worth it.

And now it’s Sunday evening, and I’m hungry.

I leave, and once I reach the street I ask my friend a question. “Google, where is the nearest brasserie with excellent salads?”

“The nearest brasserie with excellent salads is on Rue Jacob.”

“Thank you,” I say to my phone after we finish conversing in this country’s native tongue.

I changed the settings recently. I no longer speak to Google in English. I talk to her in French, and she answers me in that language. It’s our little bond, like a shrink-patient privilege.

I turn down the block, following her directions, and find she’s taking me to one of the passages, a covered arcade. Mosaic tiles line the floor. The archways high above span two or three stories, and as I turn down the hall, I pass a shop peddling old-fashioned wooden toys, a bookstore with arty titles, and a shop selling maps.

I’m a digital woman. I don’t want a map to pin to my wall, or a globe to spin. But as I gaze at a blue orb in the window, staring at the distance between Paris and Bali, I’m keenly aware of how big our world is.

And how very small, too.

The world is a massive place that can swallow you whole.

Or you can embrace its vastness, right along with little provincial joys. Like dinner at a fine café.

As I take a seat at the table, glancing at the empty chair across from me, I wait for the tears to lock up my throat. I steel myself for the vise in my chest, squeezing my heart.

But when the waiter arrives and asks me what I want to drink, I’ve no time to mourn. I have to order, and I no longer have a safety net.

I ask what the specials are. He tells me. I ask how the chicken is prepared. I’m informed. And then I order a wine and a salad with sliced chicken. When the wine arrives, I thank him, and take a drink. I watch as couples stroll along the tiled floor, as mothers hold hands with daughters, as groups of friends scurry in search of a drink.

Once my food arrives, I take a photo and post it to my feed. #Dinnerinthecityoflights #bonappétit. I want to remember this night. I want to look at this photo and recall how I feel right now, the sadness that lingers along with the happiness I was lucky enough to experience before I said good-bye to him.

And even though I’m alone, I don’t feel lonely. Not as I eat, not as I walk down the street to my flat later that night, and not as I head into work the next day, saying hello to my colleagues and, for the most part, managing to talk to them in their language.

It’s not perfect.

I’m not fluent.

But I’m good enough to get by now.

After work, I stop by the market to pick up some fruit, and as I head down the stalls, a gray-haired woman asks if I dropped a scarf. She points to a sky-blue silky scrap on the ground.

“That’s mine. Thank you so much.” I pick it up, and toss it around my neck, even though it’s not cold. But it is fashionable, and for that reason alone, I adore this accessory.

I head to the Metro, navigating seamlessly. Later, after I climb the steps to my terrace, I drink in the city at my feet.

I know. I’ve always known.

I miss him fiercely. I miss him wildly. And I know what my heart wants—to have it all.

I call Elise and ask for her help.