Paris, 1951
The Seine is lined with the dark green stands of bouqinistes, secondhand and antique books stacked from top to bottom. Postcards spin in circular wire stands and posters, unrolled and hanging freely, rustle as the wind runs through them.
Renée strolls along the Quai Saint-Michel, enjoying the brisk fall air that blows through her hair. She has stopped at a booth to look more closely at a vintage print of the Eiffel Tower, when she hears a voice drift over to her from the next booth over. "C'est combiens?" It is asking how much something costs. But the words are not what causes her to turn her head, it is the sound of the voice. Slow and deep, with a drawl that hangs on the air like the humidity of a hot summer's day. French, with an accent that is both strange and unmistakable to her ear. She looks over and not ten feet from her is Eugene Roe.
He is wearing black pants, a dark gray dress shirt, and suspenders, looking crisp and clean-cut, almost unrecognizable to her, as she has never seen him out of his military uniform. His gaze is fixed on the book whose yellow pages he is leafing through. After a while he puts it back, thanks the shopkeeper. He turns and strides off without seeing her, running a hand through that spiky black hair, the sunlight bringing out the dark blue glint she remembers from that winter day in Bastogne.
As he walks off into the crowd Renée follows, almost unconsciously. She can't let him disappear. Of course, the logical thing to do would be to call out, but she doesn't know what she would say, so she stays behind him at a safe distance while she tries to sort out her thoughts.
It's been six years since the end of the war. Six years since his last letter to her. He had continued to write even when he was back in America, so she had been confused when, several months after the war ended, he had stopped sent him a letter, but he never responded. After months of waiting, she had had to accept it. She would receive no more letters from Eugene Roe.
Renée isn't sure what she hopes to achieve by following him like this, but it was an automatic movement. Her feet moved of their own accord. It's been six years. Will he recognize her? Her face is slightly thinner than it was when the met, she is wearing a bit of makeup, and her hair is loose. Will he even remember her?
When he turns onto a relatively deserted street she has pulled her courage together, and anyways there aren't that many witnesses to see if she gets embarrassed.
She takes a deep breath.
He hears his name being called, softly.
"Eugene?"
He turns.
And...that's the end! I hope you enjoyed the story, please read on for my last (and longest) Author's Note, where I discuss/explain certain aspects of the story a bit more. Thanks again for reading!