Anthology. Robert Deshaies
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of absurdly beautiful women had come bursting into this party, and everyone was casual about it.
I felt sick. I deduced that I had too much to drink. Then my mind began to wander more, and I questioned, Where was I? I needed to use the restroom suddenly. I apologized to Sonja, and I quickly took off to the nearest washroom. Well, first, I had to get through this onslaught of beautiful Frenchwomen. As I pushed my way through the waves of women, I began to spin. The world was disconnecting itself from my head, and I was wondering if Sonja had drugged me.
No, that couldn’t be. I had my drink in my hand the whole time. I even went to the bar to get it myself. Focus. Find the washroom and recollect. Finally, after swimming through a sea of skin and lingerie, I had found the restroom. I breached into it like a SWAT team during a drug bust. I quickly hauled myself toward the toilet, and I tried to hurl. Nothing. Nothing came out.
The world quickly stopped spinning, and I was utterly confused. Did I just have a panic attack? Now I didn’t feel sick at all. Okay, settle down. Let me look in the mirror. My reflection stared back at me, and I recognized her. Okay, so I’m not drugged. I’m slightly drunk. That’s a plus. I splashed some water on my face, and I grabbed those soft towels my boss had left out. Then I looked in the mirror one more time, just to be sure.
Everything appeared okay, so I exited the washroom. And there he was. Pierre, my boss, was wearing a Venetian Carnival mask, a dashing tuxedo top, and no pants or underwear. Hanging in between was a very large, um… Give me a moment. I’m still…uh…never mind.
Don’t think about it.
Don’t think about it.
Don’t—
“Melanie, right? You got the note. You read the note. You came. Well, I’m not sure if you came yet, but we can fix that.”
“Hi, Pierre. So I’m going to ignore the”—I coughed—“the elephant in the room and just imagine you with pants on while we’re having this discussion.”
“Melanie, do you not like? I am panting less for you, no? My note, uh, it was an invite for sex.”
“Oh. Pierre, I’m terribly sorry, but I thought this was just like a work party, and then I saw the strippers…wait, sorry, prostitutes. Then I see this. I mean, it’s wonderful. Do not let anyone tell you different, but I think I better go.”
Then it was silence. The very awkward stares raged on. Then I finally spoke, “I’m going to go out for a cigarette.”
I might have shouldered my well-equipped boss on the way out, and I continued toward the door. As I grabbed the handle, the door swung open, and another surprise awaited me. Standing directly outside Pierre’s entry was a leather-clad dominatrix and a very scary-looking Siberian tiger on a chain. This could not get any weirder. Seriously.
“Bonsoir, Je crois que—”
“I’m terribly sorry, but English?”
“Ah, Americain. I’m here for the party, darling.”
“I figured. It’s not my party, so I’m just going to let you in.”
“I would sincerely hope so, darling. Too bad you’re leaving. You look like you taste good.”
My face scrounged, and I darted for the elevator. The tiger growled, but the dom didn’t let it growl again. The trick? A leather whip to master its startling movement.
As I waited for the elevator, I tapped, and my mind raced. What was I experiencing?
I really needed that cigarette.
The elevator dinged, and I hopped in. Seconds passed. Well, I didn’t really know how long, but that was what it felt like. Dropping in seconds. The elevator. Whoa. As I reached the ground floor, I moved toward the door and prayed another tiger would not appear behind it.
Oh, thank God there wasn’t. A sigh of relief escaped me, and I struggled to find the pack of Camel in my purse. My hands shakingly grabbed them, and I flicked my lighter so fast that the black putrid and oh-so-delicious smoke ignited and plastered itself into my lungs. Heavenly—the only way to describe it.
As I puffed and inhaled, I started to look around. It was my first Saturday night in Paris, and it was off to a roaring start. Company orgies, prostitutes, masks, leather, and even a tiger. Yes, it was quite the roaring start. Anyways, I was looking at the streets laid before me, and it seemed I had a choice to make. There was a fork on this road, and I could go either left or right. Today felt like a left kind of day, so I took a left. I figured tonight couldn’t get any weirder, so I began walking. The cigarette quickly disintegrated in my shaky hands, and I wished I had brought a jacket. It was now 1:15 a.m. The noise from the streets was still exceptionally busy. As I exited onto the main road, lights bombarded the hazy mists pouring from the sidewalk, and I felt like Marilyn.
Except my dress never flew up. Instead, I just saw the pile of cigarette butts lying in the gutter and tossed my own into it. Might as well make my mark now. So I assumed I was in the Sixth Arrondissement based on the signage from the city markers. The green block read Les Boulevard Saint-Germain. It sounded familiar in my head, so I kept on heading down it. The night was beautiful, and the air felt clean. Cars grazed by, but there wasn’t any honking. Not like New York, at least. The little cafés and stores along the way looked amazing, and the night’s earlier festivities almost began disappearing from my memory. That was until I felt a tap on my shoulder. I quickly turned around, and there she was. Sonja had followed me out of the party. She must have seen my incident with Pierre.
“Hi. You ran off without saying goodbye. I hope you are all right.”
“Oh, thanks. Yeah, I didn’t feel so good. I think I needed the night air.”
“What are you doing right now? I know a place. We can go there.”
“Are…are you asking me to go to your place?”
“Oh, non. Jusque un café, ma chérie.”
I was so relieved. A proper date.
“Un café, that’s coffee, right?”
“Oui, my little one. Come follow me.”
She grabbed my hand, and we began walking down the street. It was warm. She was…she was almost everything I imagined Paris to be. She was glowing, smart, sexy, and just everything and every emotion at once. Sonja…
We halted and turned left down to a red-lighted sign. It read Café. She squeezed my hand, and she looked at me. She asked me to wait for a couple of minutes while she ran in to see if it was okay for the two of us to drink coffee outside. I let her hand go, and the thought to have another cigarette appeared in my head.
I lit up, and I waited. A minute passed, and there was Sonja, right on time. She had two cafés in her hand, and she sat down at the cute, little table under the red neon. I sucked like hell and threw whatever wasn’t used to the street. I took a seat next to her, and she grabbed my hand again.
“Melanie, I know we just met, but may I kiss you?”
I blushed. I leaned in. It happened. Wow.
“That…”
“My place?”
I replied with the only French I really knew, “Oui.”
She dropped two euros on the table, gripped my hand tight, and pulled me up. Sonja told me her flat was only a block away, and we hurried there. We stopped to kiss a few more times in between. I couldn’t help myself. It was this attraction. We reached her building’s doorstep, and she was giggling. I reached into my purse to pull that old crumpling bag of cigarettes one more time for the night, and Sonja grabbed my hand.
“Upstairs. You can wait. I’ll let you have one of mine after.”
“After what?”
“After I go down on you.”
I pressed my hand against the door to open it as fast as