Meet Me in Paris
When
I was seventeen, I fell in love with my girlfriend’s mother. Though much older, she fell for me, too. Our
bodies never touched, but our hearts longed to.
My
girlfriend broke up with me. As I left
her home for the last time, her mother took me aside and whispered in my ear,
“Café Le Flore, Paris, ten years from today.
Be there.” She had never seen
Paris except in romantic movies. I had
never been to Paris either, but I swore to myself that I would be there, no
matter what.
I
ached for the day we would meet again.
Ten years passed slowly. On the appointed day, I found her seated at a
tiny table at the Café Le Flore, her long legs crossed, two wine glasses
poured.
I
said, “You’re really here. I can’t
believe my eyes.”
She
said, “I never doubted. We were meant to
be together.”
We
drank two bottles of wine, then retired to Le Hotel Meurice. After two hours of
passion, she rose from our bed, dressed quickly, and headed for the door.
I
said, “Don’t go. Stay. We’ve just begun.”
She
said, “I must go. I have
appointments. My daughter had many
boyfriends.”
