Neither of us seems in a hurry to behave.
“Which direction?” He asks.
I point vaguely toward the river. “Le Marais.”
He nods. “I’m the other way.”
“Of course you are,” I say.
“Would it be better if I lied?”
“No,” I say. “It would be more convenient if you wanted to.”
His mouth curves.
“I try not to lie for convenience.”
“That must make you difficult.”
“It does,” he says.
A taxi passes slowly, its light already off. Somewhere behind us, the bartender locks the wine bar door with a decisive click.
He looks at me. “Good night, Serena.”
My name again.
Still a problem.
“Good night, Damien,” I say.
He doesn’t kiss my cheek. He doesn’t touch my arm. He does not take the obvious step closer just because the street and the hour have made it available. He only looks at me for one last moment, and the restraint of it lands hotter than contact would have. Then he turns and walks away. I stand there for two seconds longer than I should. Then I start back toward the hotel alone.
The city is quieter now, but not asleep. Paris never fully sleeps. It just lowers its voice and waits to see what you will do with the dark. I cross the river with my notebook pressed against my side and his wine still warm somewhere in my blood. The Seine moves beneath me in black silver strips. A couple kisses near the railing. A man walks past carrying flowers wrapped in brown paper. A bicycle bell rings once behind me, sharp and bright.
I do not look back, but I want to. By the time I reach Le Marais, I know exactly three things:
1-The beans needed more salt.
2-Damien was right about the wine.
3-I did not want the evening to end.
Thethirdone is the problem.
It follows me upstairs, into the room, through the careful act of removing my earrings and placing them in the small dish beside the bed. It sits with me while I wash my face, brush my teeth, and change into the thin cotton nightgown I packed because Paris in late June has no respect for sleep. It stays near the window when I open it, letting in the faint street soundsand the warm city air that smells like stone and someone’s late cigarette. I stand there longer than I mean to.
Across the courtyard, one window glows behind gauzy curtains. A silhouette passes through it, then disappears. The world keeps being full of private lives, which is rude of it when mine has become briefly preoccupied by a man who can argue about wine, insult tomato air with proper appreciation, and leave without touching me as if restraint is its own form of pressure.
I don’t know who he is.
I don’t know whether I will see him again.
That should make him easy to set down.
Instead, when I finally lie in bed, I think about the way he looked at the plate of beans before he sent the wine—not at me first. Not at the room—at the food. He noticed the dish, the wine, the shift after the third bite. He noticed the problem before he used it to reach me.
That is a very specific kind of dangerous. I turn onto my side and close my eyes.