We'll always have Paris.

Another story was due today in creative writing. This time I had to actually write one, I didn't have the option of recycling. I'm not sure how I feel about it. Maybe you'll have more definitive feelings.

The day I met her, I sat in the coffee shop on the corner like always. I watched each and every person who passed by the window look from the girl on my left [Jul. 14, 1998 – Jan. 20, 2034; car accident] to the man on my right [Feb. 28, 1975 – May 18, 2017; shot by his ex-wife]. It was May 16, 2017 and no one looked straight at me. No one ever looked straight at me. When I couldn’t stand being ignored through the window anymore, I proceeded down 5th Avenue. I always walked down 5th in the morning when I was in that city. I passed a hot dog vendor [Mar. 11, 1943 – Mar. 11, 2028; natural causes] and a falafel purveyor [Sept. 7, 1956 – Oct. 30, 2017; stabbed by a mugger] both of whom managed to miss my attempts to buy their wares. That’s when I looked up and saw her. Rather, she saw me.
She stopped and stared straight at me. For the first time in the entirety of existence, someone held my gaze for over half a minute. Also for the first time, I didn’t immediately see a set of two dates when I looked at her face. I looked deep into those aquamarine eyes, drowning in them. She had no beginning and no end. I must have looked puzzled because she smiled and winked. I continued to stand stock-still, paralyzed by the color of her eyes. Never before had I met someone with no beginning and no end. It made me uneasy and, for a moment, a little depressed.
My desire to find out about the beautiful stranger over whom I had no power became, right in that moment, uncontrollable. I refused to break eye contact, for fear that I had invented the whole thing and she wasn’t real. It was she who came up to me.
“Hi, stranger,” she said in that way actresses do when they address an old acquaintance in a film. I blinked.
“Which one are you?” she asked, tilting her head slightly to the side. I melted.
“The dark one,” she chimed. It wasn’t a question.
Her voice was liquid and soft and washed over me like summer rain. I remained standing in my trance while she smiled sweetly into my silence. My voice was like gravel when it finally came out. I’m not sure how long it had been since I’d last spoken.
“Not the dark one,” I croaked, “the pale one.”
At that, her eyes widened. Her effortless calm faltered for a fraction of a second and a cloud passed over the sun.
“A heavy hitter,” she smiled. I couldn’t tell if everyone was staring at her because she was bewitching or because she appeared to be talking to herself. That’s when I noticed that everyone seemed to see me too. Who was this woman with her Mediterranean eyes and the ability to make people see me?
“Who are you?” I asked, much less eloquently than she would have. She simply smiled, her dimples creasing her soft cheeks.
“I,” she mused, tilting her head to one side again, “am the only one who can make people see you and not fear you.”
“Everyone fears me,” I retorted, but I knew I was wrong.
“Oh, of course they do,” she cooed like a mother appeasing a child. Then she looked over her shoulder at something I had obviously missed and giggled like a schoolgirl. She turned back to me and her turquoise eyes flashed. She grabbed my hand and began pulling me towards whatever she had seen. My first instinct would have been to pull away but the touch of her hand was light and warm. It made colors brighter and noises softer. She was running quicker than I had expected of someone so delicate, pulling me on towards whatever had caught her attention. Things began to whirl and mix together and still she gained speed. Soon, I couldn’t see anything but a dizzying rush of colors. I closed my eyes and when I opened them, I was standing on the Champs-Elysées. I knew now why she had no beginning and no end.
“This is my favorite city,” she sighed, “and one you’re no stranger to either, if I remember my history correctly.” She winked. Something gave me the impression that she remembered her history impeccably.
Twirling on her heel, she frolicked down the street. Men and women alike stopped to stare at her brilliant smile. Her face was stunning, like something out of the Louvre, and she moved with a grace unparalleled by anything mortal. I followed her reluctantly, embarrassedly staring at the ground when people tried to make eye contact with me. Never before had I had to worry about eye contact. It made me uneasy.
She absentmindedly danced all the way to the end of the street before realizing that I was abashed. Pouting exquisitely, she once again grabbed my hand.
“Look,” she said, pointing with her other hand at the Eiffel Tower, “we’re going up there.”
“Aren’t you worried someone will jump?” I asked, looking suspiciously at the tall metal tower.
“From la Tour Eiffel? On such a beautiful day as this? Non!” she said in a perfect French accent. She tugged on my hand once more and the comfort of her grip made me follow and forget my apprehension. I looked from one face to another, all smiling after she passed. A baker [Oct. 5th, 1945 – Dec. 26th, 2023; lung cancer] even smiled at me. Immediately after, he began to cough.
Once at the top of the Tower, she sighed and leaned over the railing. People who had been taking pictures of the city now abandoned their landscapes to take surreptitious photos of the perfect figure elegantly taking in the sights. I stood back from the edge, watching her more than the city. She seemed lost in the sights but I saw that her eyes were closed. Those magnificent eyes were blocked from my sight so I began to notice the rest of her. She was tall but delicate and her face was like something sculpted in marble. Her lips were full and pouty and her eyes almond shaped. Her nose was straight and fine and her chin perfectly angled. The color of her hair was like a caricature – it was too bright and too auburn to actually exist. She was dressed like something out of the 1940’s but it suited her, showing off her curves and height. While I was staring, I realized she was staring back at me.
“Did you know your eyes were green?” she asked.
“No,” I replied, a little shyly. No one had ever noticed that my eyes were green and I hadn’t looked in a mirror in years.
“Come on,” she said playfully and grabbed my hand once more. Her comment about my eyes and the renewed pressure of her hand on mine made me forget everything. We descended in the elevator and were unleashed on Paris. We rode the carousel by the bottom of the Tower and bought crêpes from a street vendor whose dates I failed to note. She then demanded that I ride on the upper deck of a double-decker sightseeing bus so I could see the Arc de Triomphe, several opera houses, Notre Dame, the Louvre, and Sacre Cœur. Paris whisked by and her laugh tinkled like a small bell at the sights and sounds of her favorite city. I decided I rather liked Paris too; anything that she liked so much couldn’t be bad.
We disembarked near the river. She continued to pull me around by my hand but I wasn’t hesitant anymore. We wandered through the streets and I wondered where she was leading me, but wasn’t curious enough to push for an answer. All I wanted was to be led around by her warm touch and dazzling eyes. She stopped at a small café on the corner of a street whose name I didn’t know.
“Lunch?” she asked. Her head tilted towards the café and I couldn’t refuse. We sat outside while a man brought us menus.
“So,” she said and looked suddenly very serious, “how do you like Paris?” She was asking me in a mock-serious tone like a detective on a TV show and there was a smile in her eyes. I laughed a rare laugh and looked up into her unbelievable face.
“I think I like it rather a lot,” I said sincerely.
“Good,” she said as if some matter had been settled, “it is, after all, my favorite.”
“Garçon!” she called politely. The waiter rushed over immediately, unable to control the obvious enthusiasm with which he was going to serve this wonderful creature.
“Deux cafés, s’il vous plait,” she chimed in perfect French. The waiter looked taken aback for a second and then noticed me for what seemed like the first time. I attempted a smile but it made him start and bustle off towards the kitchen.
“You really shouldn’t go around scaring people,” she admonished.
“I didn’t mea-” I began to retort but she laughed and I saw that she had been joking.
“So, art for this afternoon?” she asked. It wasn’t really a question but a warning of what I should be prepared for. I simply nodded.
The waiter came back with the coffee and I let her order lunch, which turned out to be simple ham sandwiches with cheese and egg. We ate and I watched her look around. Everything she looked at became a little more vibrant and when she tilted her head in just the right way, the sun became a little brighter. She smiled when she finished and put her hand on my knee. My stomach fluttered and my throat tightened.
“The Louvre,” she said matter-of-factly.
We rode the Métro to the center of the city and stood before the glass pyramid in front of the old castle. I couldn’t help but notice how pretty it was. We toured the long halls with the gilded frames and painted ceilings. Everywhere we went, people still turned their cameras away from the artwork to photograph her instead. She led me towards La Jaconde to gape with the tourists.
“She’s green,” she noted interestedly, “like your eyes.”
“I like this one because neither of us is in it,” I thought out loud.
“But you’re wrong,” she said and smiled a little half smile. It mirrored the one in the painting and I saw that I was wrong. She was in the painting after all.
“We’re everywhere,” she said and guided me away from the portrait. We wandered more, through sculpture gardens where she stood at every turn and medieval paintings where I presided over every scene. For hours we explored the art.
“Almost dinner time,” she mused once when we were looking at a painting of fruit, “I think I’d like room service.” She turned her head suddenly in my direction and the look in her eye made the Louvre melt away. I wanted room service too.
We left and the museum and took the Métro to an old hotel in Montmartre. The artist’s square bustled as we passed through but I only had eyes for her. She winked at the concierge on the way in, and he smiled dreamily at her, doing nothing to prevent her going to a room without a key or reservation. Up four flights of stairs she led me and I began to be afraid that she would go up more when she opened the door to the hallway and pointed to the suite at the end. She then stood back and serenely waited for me to lead the way. Before our trip, I would have turned on the spot and left her disappointed but the crêpes, the coffee, the Eiffel Tower, the art, her eyes, and Paris had changed something in me. This time, I grabbed her hand.
I shut the door behind her and she walked to the center of the room where the light from the setting sun outside the window fell in a warm pool. She stood in its center and began to undress. Her clothes piled up on the floor around her and she kicked off her pumps last. She looked up at me and, for the first time, looked a little shy. All I could do was stare. Her body was perfect to match her face. Dimpled in all the right places, thin but curvy, with legs forever. It was like looking at one of the sculptures from the Louvre.
Bashfully, I began to remove my clothes. I knew I wasn’t ugly, but I also knew that nothing in the world could compare to the goddess standing in front of me. I hastily threw my clothes in a bundle near the door as she lay down on the bed. I’d known a few women before her, but they’d all had a beginning and an end and none was perfect. She was. I followed her onto the bed and she locked her fingers around the back of my neck. Those Neptune blue eyes looked into mine and I was lost.
When I woke up in the mid-afternoon, I found a single, full, red rose blossom on the pillow next to mine. The blossom still couldn’t mask her scent; it lingered over everything in the room. Beneath the petals was a note imploring me to watch the evening news. I sat up and looked around, she was gone. I felt a slight pull in my chest and a small emptiness that I hadn’t noticed before. I looked at my watch and decided I had two hours until the news so I went back to sleep.
At 6 o’clock, I turned on the television in the room and sat back curiously. According to a very astonished looking news anchor, it appeared that no one had died in Paris for a period of 24 hours now. I sat up a little straighter. I clicked through the channels, looking for international news. The BBC informed me that it also appeared no one had died in London or, indeed, the whole of England, in the past 24 hours.
I got dressed and left the hotel; I knew no one would notice my leaving. The concierge [Apr. 27th, 1987 – June 13th, 2047; heart attack] looked up briefly when I opened the door but saw nothing. I took off running down the street as fast as I could and the colors began to whirl around me, though not as brightly as when she had led me. I went to New York first, where I also found that, miraculously, no one had died for a day. Washington, D.C., LA, Baghdad, Rome, Istanbul, Prague, Athens, Bangkok, Bombay, Chicago, Seoul, Dubai, Tokyo, Beijing, Tehran, Cairo, Sydney, New Delhi, Jerusalem, Moscow, Madrid, Santiago, Berlin – all the same. No one had died for 24 hours.
I began to panic. The world was in chaos. Transfusions were being given to patients who continued to hemorrhage but refused to die, car accidents were sending victims to emergency rooms with massive internal injuries, no treatment options, and no way out. Attempted suicides failed and murders now had first hand witnesses. People who were supposed to drown were being washed up on shore with water in their lungs and no oxygen in their brains, but a beating heart nonetheless. It was a disaster and I was the only one who could begin putting it right.

* * *
That day was 600 years ago and had been long in coming. We see each other now from time to time, when our visits coincide. She makes my job harder and I make hers easier. If her gift lasted forever, it would drive a person crazy, but it sucks to be the one who has to take it away. So remember, when you see the girl with the seawater eyes and the sunshine smile, embrace her. She has only light to give you. But when you see me, the tall stranger with the celadon eyes, be not afraid. I have only relief to give you.