Page 20 of Pampered in Paris

I help Anne up and my hands linger. I want to tuck her flyaway hair behind her ear, to stroke her cheek and kiss her deeply. To fill this void in my chest that I’ve created.

Unsure of where to go, I ask if she’s had duck yet in France.

“Nope. I’ll follow your lead.” She helps me fold up the picnic blanket.

We walk along the river’s edge for a bit as I take her further into the Latin Quarter. I give her some history about the buildings and some of the sculptures and statues we pass. Ourpace is leisurely and when her gaze wanders a smidge too long at a window display, we pop in.

I love to see the way her eyes light up, her fascination is contagious. Many of the places we stop in to shop, I’ve never given a second glance. It's almost as if Anne has blessed me with a smidge of her zest for life. I feel as if I’m looking at Paris through her eyes, and it’s lovely.

Maybe I don’t want to go to Spain after all.

Maybe Paris is where I’m meant to stay, with or without Anne here. I can run the restaurant and take more time off to explore the city I love and go abroad to visit other places I’ve always wanted to see.

Anne grabs my hand and tugs me close to her. She gestures for me to lean down.

“Can you please help me ask what the price is for that piece of art?” she whispers in my ear. Her breath on my ear gives me goosebumps on my forearms.

I look in the direction she points. The art piece hanging on the brick wall is similar to that of Van Gogh’s irises painting. It’s not a print but more like another artist’s homage to the original work. The flowers are a beautiful deep blue-purple, with hints of light touching the petals. It’s breathtaking. I look at Anne’s face. Her eyes are wide. The little flecks of gold remind me of the bits of light in the painting.

“Certainly.” I can’t help myself. I kiss her cheek. It’s a quick peck before I go to talk to the shopkeeper.

I ask them about the price, shipping, all those little details that may be too much for Anne to handle in French. I turn to look at her to beckon her over, but she’s in a world of her own. She’s deep in thought, looking at the painting. Her head is tilted, as if trying to scan every millimeter of it.

After I thank the shopkeeper, I join Anne in front of the painting. I tell her the details and she sighs in response, her lips pinched together into a tight frown.

“Out of my budget, but it’s beautiful. Okay, let’s head to dinner.”

“We can take our time,” I reply, “if you want to stand here longer, we can.” I take her hand in mine and squeeze it. I want to take advantage of any moment she’ll let me touch her, even if it’s just holding hands.

We stand there a little longer before heading back on our way. When we reach the restaurant, we’re seated right away despite the small crowd near the hostess stand. I explain to Anne that I know the owner and he’s another one of the guys I went to school with forever ago.

“You seem to know everyone in Paris,” she murmurs as we get settled at our table.

“Just the food people. We all keep the same hours so we’re off together.” I shrug.

“That makes sense.” She looks over the menu. “How do you pronounce duck in French?”

I say it a few times slowly for her and watch in amusement as she practices, moving her mouth in more exaggerated shapes than necessary for the vowels.

“Do you know that there is only a vowel sound difference between calling someone a ‘duck’ and a ‘dickhead’?”

She bursts into laughter. “Really? I’m never going to win you over with speaking French, am I?”

“Ah,mon trésor, you’ve already won me over.” I kiss her hand lightly and watch as her cheeks turn from a light pink to a rosy red.

I wish we had more time together.

We pass dinner with pleasant conversation and swap amusing work stories. I tell her about crazy mix-ups in thekitchen and she tells me tales of small-town life. She orders in French, over-enunciating the vowel, but I give her a quiet round of applause.

God, I love her enthusiasm for trying new things.

I love her. That’s what this all is.

We share a small chocolate dessert and she tells me about the new flavors she wants to incorporate into more classic pastries. She’s eager to experiment with fruit fillings and local produce. I could listen to her voice for hours with no complaint.

After we’re finished, I offer to walk her home. We opt to stroll along the water instead of taking the metro. She still hasn’t seen the Eiffel Tower’s evening light show.

“What is the light show? I was told it sparkles at night but I seem to always miss it.” She groans as the tower comes into view.

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