Paris Nights

“When I was punk and did street fighting…”

Philippe starts the story. He’s speaking French, but punk and street fighting are the same words in both languages, only difference the accent, and it’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard.

We’re in the Latin Quarter, and its windy cobblestones streets are barely big enough for normal traffic. Now the crowds of pedestrians weave through the cars, streaming from gallery to gallery. Two teenagers push past us, one knocking into me, and neither of us says anything. It’s Paris—there’s never enough room on the sidewalks. If Philippe needs to fight someone it’ll be late night outside of a club, like the time those teenagers surrounded me when I was unlocking my bike. Instead of peddling away praying they won’t chase me, I’ll have Philippe, ready to kick the shit out of them on my behalf. I can feel it in his energy, see it in his arms, in all the muscles rippling under his thin black t-shirt. It’s warm for September, and he left his jacket with the moto. I kept my blazer on because all I’m wearing underneath is a black fishnet shirt, goth chic. We’re both wearing all black, and I love it.

Philippe’s still talking about being punk, but I lose track of the story because I’m thinking about how, when he leaves me, I’ll have to get over being protected. I’ll also have to get over his motorcycle and riding behind him, arms wrapped around his black leather jacket. When he leaves me, I’ll have to get over this date and the way he called and asked if I wanted to go to les portes ouvertes on the Left Bank, his French patient and polite as we made plans. It isn’t until we walk into the first gallery that I force myself to stop. It’s our first date, and I shouldn’t spend it thinking about how things will end…”

The opening of my second novel, Paris Nights, a story of rebirth, hope, and the choice between love and fear.

Read the first two chapters at Embark Literary Journal.