Page 66 of Come Back To Me

“Didn’t you throw this away last night?”she’d asked, holding up a plastic tub of butter. I nodded. She’d found it in her wardrobe among her shoes.“What type of ghost collects tubs of butter?”She’d frowned, stepping on the paddle of the rubbish bin. I didn’t know. I am haunted by the living.

I step into her room. It’s chilly, the windows open, and her flimsy gauze curtains flapping about. I close them quickly and open her wardrobe, smiling glibly. All monochrome. I’ve never seen her in color. I choose a black shirt and jacket to pair with my black pants, and write her a little note telling her what I’ve taken. I don’t feel myself when I step onto the street. I’ve been living in khaki and white, a single limp braid hanging down my back. Tonight I look stylish and French in my black pants and tailored jacket. My hair hangs in ripples down my back from the braid and I even put on mascara and lipstick. I used to think that loving someone split you in two: the person you were when you were alone, and the person you were as part of a team. I held things back from him thinking he’d not want me as I was, and as a result, I always felt trapped beneath my own skin, never fully able to be myself. I am myself now, and I don’t care who sees that. The walk to the cafe is fifteen minutes. I’m already ten minutes late.

When I step into the café, I spot him right away. He’s waiting for me at a tiny table, a French saying is painted on the wall over his head:Au fait.It means to be conversant with familiar things.How appropriate, I think as I make my way toward him. When I reach the table, he stands up like a proper gentleman and gives me a tight-lipped smile. He’s all business and I’m all nerves. We both make a point of being covert lookers; under the guise of lowly hung eyelids and quick glances we study one another. His skin is the color of butterscotch. Only the wealthy are tan, I think. The rest of us work too much to lie underneath the sun. We both sink into our seats, relieved that the greeting is over—that’s the hard part, the awkwardness of saying hello.

“Did you bring them?” I ask.

My hands are folded on the table to keep from shaking. If you looked closely you would see the tremor.

“Bring what?”

“The papers. Aren’t you here to have me sign papers? And how did you find me anyway?”

“I hired a private detective,” he says. “He’s quite used to finding you at this point.”

I make a face. “That’s how you knew I’d be at the cafe,” I say, nodding. “Why don’t you just e-mail and ask?”

“Would you answer?”

I tap, tap, tap my finger on the tabletop, then abruptly fold them again.

“No, I suppose not.”

He lifts his eyebrows in response.

I am hungry for him to tell me something. Something about his life, or even about Petra. If he imparts even a little detail it will mean he cares, that I am worthy of knowing things. I almost laugh at myself. I gave all of David up. I have no right to ask anything about his life. I am emotionally homeless, pandering for his attention.

“Why are you here?” he asks.

He gestures outside and it takes a moment to understand that he means Paris, not this particular restaurant.

I look around anyway, at the tiny white plates on the tables, and then outside at two women with cigarettes scissored between their fingers. They are gaunt, bare of makeup. In Paris, the women accept their bare faces and like them that way. I’m learning, but I love makeup.

“Same reason I’m ever anywhere,” I say.

“Did you have a boyfriend you were going to move in with…Evan…?”

“Ethan.” I shrug. “Why don’t you tell me something about yourself since you seem to know so much about me,” I say.

I want one of those cigarettes that the gaunt, barefaced girls are holding. David offers me his water like he knows I’m struggling. I take it gratefully and sip.

“Me?” he says, surprised. “What do you want to know about me?”

I thrill at the offer even though it isn’t really an offer. There only seems to be one question important enough to ask. One I ask myself almost every day.

“Are you happy?” I figure his answer will answer all of my other questions.

“What does it mean to be happy?” he asks.

A question to answer a question. He’s good at that.

A server appears with a bottle of Burgundy and two glasses. She’s one of the gaunt girls I saw smoking outside. She isn’t wearing a bra. I check to see if David has noticed, but his eyes are on me. I have a flashback of our last meeting in London and how that had gone south fast.

“Every time you order a bottle of wine we fight,” I say.

He gives me an annoyed look as he fills my glass.

“We fight because we have things to fight about, it has nothing to do with the wine.”

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