A.N: By 'Paris', I'm referring to the city, not the character. There's no R/T/P triangle here. Heh. I haven't been in a writing mood in a while, so this is my attempt to get back into the flow. This is an AU one-parter that takes place in the future.
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Forget Paris
by inmyeyes
It feels as though I've been rudely yanked from a long, peaceful sleep filled with the most sublime dreams. I look out the small window and watch as the world below slowly comes into view, bringing me closer and closer to reality. Bringing me back to my life… back to a future that I don't want at all, one that I never wanted.
"Are you feeling all right, dear?" asks the soft, concerned voice from next to me.
I slowly release my grip on the armrest and turn to face the elderly woman sitting next to me. For some reason, she reminds me of my grandmother, even though the only thing they have in common is that stylish haute couture that is so typical of the rich.
I try to smile, even though it's hard. "I'm fine; I'm just a little nervous about flying." The lie rolls easily off my lips.
Understanding dawns in her eyes and she pats my hand lightly. My lips once again curve in a small smile before I return my gaze to the view outside the window.
As Hartford rises up to greet me, I see nothing but smiling blue eyes and a devastatingly gorgeous smile and a shiver passes through me as the memory of his touch lingers in my mind; I see the awe-inspiring view from the top of the Eiffel Tower; I feel the cool spring air blowing my unbound hair off my shoulders and the feel of his long fingers entwined with mine.
The memory drifts away; I close my eyes as the impact of the plane's wheels hitting the runway is felt and the unassailable sinking of my heart follows.
I am home, but I left my heart a thousand miles away.
Paris started out as a distraction; a place I went to in order to escape the unwanted reality of my life. The moment I stepped off the plane at the Charles de Gaulle airport, I felt freer than I had in a long time. All the worries and doubts that had plagued my mind slipped away into the background as I let a beautiful tranquillity wash over me. It was as though reality slowly faded away with each step I took.
I can't really recall what I did during that first few days alone in Paris. I do know that I spent many hours steeped into self-pity, anger and worry. Those memories are hazy; one day blurring into another. All that mattered was that I was miles away from home.
Things changed on the third day. Tired of crying over things I couldn't control, I resolved to leave it behind me, at least for the moment. Paris was my getaway, and I fully intended to enjoy it.
Being alone in the city of love was both freeing and melancholic. Freeing because I felt unconfined by dictates, by duty, by the expectations of others. I could just be. And I hadn't had that feeling in a long time.
The melancholia only set in during the waning hours of the day. As the sun took its rest and allowed twilight to creep in, the city became truly lit up by the glow of lovers. I didn't mind being alone, but some little hidden part of my heart yearned for things I knew were out of my reach.
I met him in one of those moments.
I was sitting in the Parc du Champs de Mars, staring up at the lighted steel structure that is the Eiffel Tower. It looked like a beacon in the night, showing the way for lovers everywhere.
All of a sudden, it started to drizzle but I took no notice of the rain. I merely pulled away the wet strands of hair clinging to my cheeks and wiped away the droplets of water obscuring my vision.
My mind had wandered so far away that it took me a few minutes to notice that although the rain hasn't stopped falling, I was protected from it. With a puzzled look on my face, I looked up to see an umbrella above me; I turned to my right and the warmth I saw in the depths of blue that met mine warmed my chilled body.
And any feelings of lonesomeness that I had were erased.
A beautiful lady like you shouldn't be sitting alone in the rain in Paris, he had said.
And even though the sensible part of my brain told me not to be taken in, I was. I returned his smile, and the rest- as they say- is history.
His name was Tristan and although he was American, he had been living in Paris for over five years. His open smile and concerned gaze reflected his offer of friendship, which I readily accepted. He made me realize that even though I didn't mind being alone, I didn't like it.
Days turned into nights and it felt as though we spent every waking moment together. Days turned into a week… and I put off my departure, much to his delight and the censure of my family waiting back home. For once, I shrugged off the chains that had bound me and made a decision that I wanted to make.
We saw everything that Paris had to offer, with Tristan as my guide.
We ogled the art at the Louvre and discussed the merits of Picasso and Van Gogh. Over dinner at a small bistro, we debated over the mystery of Mona Lisa's smile. He was well-learned and well-spoken and very opinionated and I couldn't fail to notice the way his eyes turned into a darker blue whenever he spoke of something he was passionate about.
That night, he walked me back to the little hotel I was staying at and left me at my door with nothing more than a kiss on my hand. Still, I couldn't stop smiling.
We walked along the Champs Elysées hand-in-hand and ate ice-cream in one of the sidewalk cafes lining the avenue. We made snide comments about some of the people passing by and giggled uncontrollably. He invited me to his apartment and cooked me dinner and told me about his life, and his work and I shared my life in return.
We traipsed around Montmartre. Upon his urging, we got charcoal sketches of ourselves done; he kept the one of me and I still have his. We sat talking for hours on the steps of the Sacré Coeur.
He finally kissed me that night. The anticipation had almost overwhelmed me but nothing- not even my torrid daydreams- could have prepared me for it. I had been talking about the downfalls of being a lawyer as we were walking along the right bank of the Seine River. He laid a hand on my shoulder, turned me to face him and without preamble, lowered his mouth to mine.
The kiss was soft and slow and made me feel like the desirable woman on earth. When he pulled away, my hands were deeply buried in his tousled blonde hair and I was pressed closely to his muscular body. His eyes met mine and the passion-filled dark blue made my stomach flutter. I just pulled him closer and kissed him again.
We picnicked in the Luxembourg Gardens, surrounded by the beautiful flora and accompanied by endless conversation and occasional laughter. This time, I made our lunch of simple sandwiches, a salad and some tarts bought from the bakery around the corner from my hotel. We laid down on the checked blanket, my head pillowed on his shoulder, and watched the clouds.
He didn't have to invite me back to his place; the look in his eyes was invitation enough.
I woke up to the feel of light kisses on my cheeks, my neck and my bared shoulders. His smiling face was the first thing I saw when I opened my eyes; with the sunlight glinting off his messy hair and highlighting his tanned skin, I thought that I had never seen a more beautiful sight. After a long, leisurely Sunday breakfast interspersed with kisses, we visited the Notre Dame and were awed by the sounds of the organ and the choir, the imposing flying buttresses of the Apse and the lovely view from the top of the Tower of Notre Dame.
We spent an entire day at the Galeries LaFayette, charging everything on our credit cards and leaving with an abundance of shopping bags. The next day, I woke him up with the sound of my laughter after seeing the grand pile of clothes and souvenirs littering my room after our day of shopping. He silenced me with a long kiss.
I was happy and felt more alive than I ever had before.
My week and a half of happiness eventually come to an end. On my last day in Paris, Tristan took me up the Eiffel Tower. It was late in the afternoon and the sun was just lowering, splattering the sky with splotches of orange and red and blue. The sight made my breath catch in my throat; but my heart told me that it was no more breath-taking than the way the look in his eyes, his kisses, his touch made me feel.
We made love through the night as I tried to get my fill of him to get me through the rest of my life. Sometimes, it was fast and frenzied- a sure reflection of the desperation we were both feeling. Other times, we lingered over each caress, each kiss until we both were crazy with wanting. Those were the times that made my heart clench in anguish.
He left me that morning with one last, long kiss goodbye. Then he took my left hand and lifted it to his lips, holding it there for a few seconds as his eyes fell to my fingers. His grip tightened for half a second before he let go.
I watched him walk out the door and down the narrow staircase, wanting to call him back and wanting to run to him but knowing that I couldn't.
I wanted him to verbalize the feelings that I saw in his eyes; I wanted him to ask me to stay; I wanted him to promise me forever… and I wanted to do all those things for him too. But he wouldn't and I couldn't.
The announcement over the PA system shatters my reverie and reminds me that Paris is nothing but a memory. As I unfasten my seat belt, my gaze travels to my left hand and I stare at the faint marking around my ring finger.
I reach for my handbag and rummage around until my fingers close around a small velvet box. Opening it, the large diamond winks at me and with a heavy heart, I slip it onto my finger. It feels even more foreign on my skin than it used to feel.
I want to cry, but I won't.
I'll get off this plane and go back to my life; return to what has been decided is my fate. I'll endure the rebuke that my grandparents will inflict me and I know the words 'duty' and 'promise' and 'fated' will be used.
I'll visit my mother's grave and tell her all about the love of my life and then never speak of him again. I'll wish that she was still alive. I'll wish that I had the courage to defy my grandparents and take the next flight back to Paris, back to him. And then I'll dry my tears and accept what I have to do.
In a month's time, I'll pretend to be the happiest bride there ever was. I'll walk down the aisle on my grandfather's arm and pay no heed to the shattered pieces of my heart.
I'll look into his brown eyes but see bright blue instead. I'll pledge to spend my life with someone I hardly know. I'll promise to share my life, my dreams and my hopes with him and I'll promise to give him all of me, knowing that my heart is not his for the taking.
Then I'll kiss him and pretend that it isn't Tristan I'm seeing in my mind. I'll smile and nod and accept the congratulations offered to me, all the while ignoring the fact that I'm dying inside.
I'll try to forget that I was ever in Paris. I'll try to erase Tristan from my mind, forget the taste of love that he gave me. I'll try… but I know I won't.
Because no matter what, we'll always have Paris.