Everything in this world has a beginning. Even the greatest things in life
had a beginning. The Mona Lisa was once a blank canvas. Romeo and Juliet
once sat on a blank piece of paper. And like all great things, this is the
beginning of a story. A story about love. If you do no longer believe in
love, you may put this book down and walk away forever; but, if you do
believe in love the way I, myself, do, you should enjoy this book.
He watched her from across the café like he had done everyday. As she slowly sipped her coffee, he would try to muster the courage and say the simplest thing. Hello. But somehow, this simple word seemed impossible to pass along to her. He had wanted to say such simple things since he had first seen her. He had come to Paris one year ago.
"How could you leave me like this?" his mother would scream. She did not want her baby boy to leave her. "I must." he replied knowing full well, he had no reasons but personal ones to go. He wanted to find love. He wanted an adventure. In his heart, this all made sense; but in his head, he thought he was only living a fairy tale. She had, on the other hand, lived in Paris all her life. Her thick, brown hair was her best feature, and she took pride in it. Her brown eyes were so eloquently set off, she could strike intimidation into your very soul without even meaning to. And there he sat. His slightly darker brown hair done in an old-fashioned way that no one carried any longer, but seemed to suit his personality. His green puppy dog eyes could well enough get pity, but never had he used them to get love. For, as far as he knew, he could not. He could sit there and watch her ordinary day and become so intrigued with her, he would forget he was staring. And, as most people tend to do, she got the unnerving feeling of being watched. She glanced his way. He quickly turned his head away. Although the pain of not being able to turn it back was unbearable
Oh no! he thought. Maybe she didn't notice me staring.
However, she did notice. And she crossed the room toward his table. "Excuse moi moussier, but I could not help notice you were staring at me. Is there something the matter? Food in my teeth?"
"Yes. I mean no! No! You're.you're beautiful," he dreaded saying that out loud the moment he had.
She blushed, "You embarrass me monsieur."
"I'm sorry."
"No, no monsieur, you misunderstand. It is quite a good thing."
"Oui?"
"Oui. Now, what is your name?"
"Evan, mademoiselle. And you?"
"Ophelia, monsieur."
"Well.Ophelia." he was at a lost for words, "would you like to join me for."
"Dinner?"
"No. Uh! Yes! Dinner."
"Yes."
"Oh well that's too bad." her words began to sink in. "You will? That's wonderful!" She giggled and he tried to change the subject, "Tomorrow night? Eight o' clock?"
"I'll meet you out front of here. Don't be late." She returned to her table, gathered her belongings, and started for the door. When she arrived there, she turned back, smiled, and winked. As she finally left, Evan felt gladder than he ever had before. He ran out into the night of Paris. Singing out loud, he ran down every street. He could not remember ever being so happy. Nothing could dampen his spirits that night. Not even the residents who were yelling for quiet. He arrived at his tiny one-room apartment. The walls were stained and the floor was in dire need of repair. Clothes and belongings were scattered about and the bed was left unmade. But he did not have the money for anything better when he had arrived in Paris more than a year ago. That was when he first saw her. And now, he had finally spoken to her. It all seemed to happen in a blur, but the fact that he was to meet her the next night kept him his spirits high all night. He tumbled into his bed, still full clothed. He knew he would not be able to sleep in any matter. He only could look to the ceiling smiling and panting from the jog.
Ophelia neither sung nor ran the way home. She simply strolled along the sidewalks quietly humming an old French tune she knew. She had always lived in Paris. Her thick French accent proved that. She finally came to her home. Her parents had died many years ago, and she had been the one to inherit the comfortably sized townhouse. She unlocked the door and walked into the hallway. She only stopped at the mirror to put down her keys and hat; she threw her coat onto an antique bench and continued down the hall.
As she climbed the stairs, Ophelia could not help but smirk. She had obtained yet another date. She had never believed in such a thing as "love" for she had never felt it. She did have infatuations, yes, but anything beyond that never took place. She believed in a spouse for one thing: to carry on the family name. And, since she was a woman, she saw no point in settling down any time in the near future.
She reached the landing and walked the remaining length to her bedroom. She walked into the bathroom and took down her hair. She bent over the sink and took of her make-up. All part of her nightly routine. She returned to her bedroom and took off her clothes exposing her undergarments. She crossed the room and went into the walk-in closet. She rummaged around and found her nightgown. She slipped into it and headed for bed. She turned out the light and went right to sleep. She had a big date tomorrow.
He watched her from across the café like he had done everyday. As she slowly sipped her coffee, he would try to muster the courage and say the simplest thing. Hello. But somehow, this simple word seemed impossible to pass along to her. He had wanted to say such simple things since he had first seen her. He had come to Paris one year ago.
"How could you leave me like this?" his mother would scream. She did not want her baby boy to leave her. "I must." he replied knowing full well, he had no reasons but personal ones to go. He wanted to find love. He wanted an adventure. In his heart, this all made sense; but in his head, he thought he was only living a fairy tale. She had, on the other hand, lived in Paris all her life. Her thick, brown hair was her best feature, and she took pride in it. Her brown eyes were so eloquently set off, she could strike intimidation into your very soul without even meaning to. And there he sat. His slightly darker brown hair done in an old-fashioned way that no one carried any longer, but seemed to suit his personality. His green puppy dog eyes could well enough get pity, but never had he used them to get love. For, as far as he knew, he could not. He could sit there and watch her ordinary day and become so intrigued with her, he would forget he was staring. And, as most people tend to do, she got the unnerving feeling of being watched. She glanced his way. He quickly turned his head away. Although the pain of not being able to turn it back was unbearable
Oh no! he thought. Maybe she didn't notice me staring.
However, she did notice. And she crossed the room toward his table. "Excuse moi moussier, but I could not help notice you were staring at me. Is there something the matter? Food in my teeth?"
"Yes. I mean no! No! You're.you're beautiful," he dreaded saying that out loud the moment he had.
She blushed, "You embarrass me monsieur."
"I'm sorry."
"No, no monsieur, you misunderstand. It is quite a good thing."
"Oui?"
"Oui. Now, what is your name?"
"Evan, mademoiselle. And you?"
"Ophelia, monsieur."
"Well.Ophelia." he was at a lost for words, "would you like to join me for."
"Dinner?"
"No. Uh! Yes! Dinner."
"Yes."
"Oh well that's too bad." her words began to sink in. "You will? That's wonderful!" She giggled and he tried to change the subject, "Tomorrow night? Eight o' clock?"
"I'll meet you out front of here. Don't be late." She returned to her table, gathered her belongings, and started for the door. When she arrived there, she turned back, smiled, and winked. As she finally left, Evan felt gladder than he ever had before. He ran out into the night of Paris. Singing out loud, he ran down every street. He could not remember ever being so happy. Nothing could dampen his spirits that night. Not even the residents who were yelling for quiet. He arrived at his tiny one-room apartment. The walls were stained and the floor was in dire need of repair. Clothes and belongings were scattered about and the bed was left unmade. But he did not have the money for anything better when he had arrived in Paris more than a year ago. That was when he first saw her. And now, he had finally spoken to her. It all seemed to happen in a blur, but the fact that he was to meet her the next night kept him his spirits high all night. He tumbled into his bed, still full clothed. He knew he would not be able to sleep in any matter. He only could look to the ceiling smiling and panting from the jog.
Ophelia neither sung nor ran the way home. She simply strolled along the sidewalks quietly humming an old French tune she knew. She had always lived in Paris. Her thick French accent proved that. She finally came to her home. Her parents had died many years ago, and she had been the one to inherit the comfortably sized townhouse. She unlocked the door and walked into the hallway. She only stopped at the mirror to put down her keys and hat; she threw her coat onto an antique bench and continued down the hall.
As she climbed the stairs, Ophelia could not help but smirk. She had obtained yet another date. She had never believed in such a thing as "love" for she had never felt it. She did have infatuations, yes, but anything beyond that never took place. She believed in a spouse for one thing: to carry on the family name. And, since she was a woman, she saw no point in settling down any time in the near future.
She reached the landing and walked the remaining length to her bedroom. She walked into the bathroom and took down her hair. She bent over the sink and took of her make-up. All part of her nightly routine. She returned to her bedroom and took off her clothes exposing her undergarments. She crossed the room and went into the walk-in closet. She rummaged around and found her nightgown. She slipped into it and headed for bed. She turned out the light and went right to sleep. She had a big date tomorrow.