I'm sitting at Cafe Borgia on Price Street, wrapped up in an over-sized, thick, gray men's sweater, and sipping on my second extra-hot vanilla latte. Spring is here, or so they say. You could have fooled me with these forty degree overcast days as we wait for the sun to warm up and follow the lead of the bees, tulips, longer days and the blooming trees that with each gust of wind, creates a gentle storm of petals.
Although it doesn't feel like spring here in New York or in Paris, I wouldn't trade today, this moment, my life, for last year's early seventy-five degree days. All I need to do is to run my bottle of Marc Jacobs' "Lola" perfume under my nose to bring me back to this dark time of my life, one haunting day in particular.
Picture it. Paris. Last year.
I was returning home from another numbingly long day from my job as an executive photocopier, wondering what the hell I was doing with my life. The fact that I'd be pressing a button for nine hours a day was the initial appeal of the position, the idea was to not think, not realizing within weeks I would grow restless and hungry for more meaning in my life. Unfortunately rent and bills happen, so pushing a green "start" button was my reality and what was keeping me in Paris. We do what we have to do.
As each mockingly picturesque day went by, where my big life decisions ranged from which metro stop I'd get off that day, would I go to the Franprix by Saint Paul or the G20 on Rue Vieille du Temple, and what could I watch when I got home that wouldn't make burst out in streams of tears, I decided to be a wild child and walk home from work that day. With my cardigan stuffed in my work tote, I rolled up the sleeves of my sky blue H&M button down, and went from George V to Hôtel de Ville, not even the aimless tourists on the Champs-Elysées encroached on the comfort of my haze. The only thing I had to focus on was walking straight, and the simplicity of my task was soothing.
Making a left from Rue de Rivoli onto Rue des Archives, I passed by all the cafés that MF and I would sit at for early evening apéros. On our good days, we'd sit on the terrace, side by side, with me tucked under his arm and we'd look out onto the Marais and talk about our life, future and sharing funny anecdotes our day. As I let my mind become intoxicated and seduced by memories of my former life of cafés, rosé and Gitanes, I saw him. I hadn't seen him since he dropped off my things at my new apartment and now there he was. MF at a café...with another woman. I have watched this scene played over and over in films, where the lead actress sees the man she loves with someone else and while it's supposed to be devastating, it never got much sympathy from me. It's not until you live and experience it for yourself that you are able to understand the magnitude of pain that is being replaced by another woman. My heart shot right down to the caverns of my stomach seeing the two of them laughing and enjoying each other at Caffe Vito. They were savoring this warm evening in the Marais as I was miserable, watching the days pass in my chambre de bonne, trying to squeeze in one little chuckle a day by humiliating myself at Belly and African tribal dance classes, trying not to explode into tears when I'm told by my boss that I needed to be trained in filing paper and here these two were, living life to its fullest at one of our cafés. I wanted to smash him.
The woman, I immediately recognized as someone who had been sniffing around his restaurant, always proposing to get a drink with him after work. Of course I was always the bitch for questioning her intentions and even the suggestion that I thought she was being inappropriate to pursuing a taken man caused a two day war between MF and I. Sometimes, I really don't understand women. I would never do that, but my days of assuming people would be do the ethical and morally correct things as I would are long over. Katie taught me that lesson. Before I could even consider turning around to avoid him, I felt his black eyes on me. I was spotted. Fuck. I had to be a big girl and with my head held high, I approached the café where he got up from his seat and greeted me in the middle of the sidewalk. Once we were face to face, I couldn't look at him. How could he fucking be on a date so soon?And with someone I had suspicions about months before! I wanted to scream this at him because in my mind, I still had the right to, but my shock rendered me speechless. He tried to go into for the casual double kiss but I wouldn't let him taint the situation with a trivial bisous. I put my hand up and flinched back like a cat reacting to strong perfume. We weren't friends and I didn't want to assuage his guilt by letting him think that. I don't remember saying much to him and didn't want this run-in to last a second longer. I wished him well and left him behind as I walked with my head hung low as fast as my little ballerines would take me. We had nothing to say to each other.
My sadness was much deeper than a mere feeling of disappointment. This was the kind of pain that burned every time I thought of him, her, and the worst; him with her. A stinging sensation would shoot through my entire body at the thought of them and couldn't help but wonder what was really going on those nights he came home at 2 am. I felt sick from the betrayal. Everything was heightened that night, not even a glass of wine could get me out of this one, because it was the very moment that I knew that it truly was over. We would not be working this out.
Being able to comment a year later, as a heart break survivor, I say good! Thank God it didn't work out! He wasn't the one for me and it truly is no one's fault but my own for locking myself so deeply into his life, where starting over on my own seemed close to impossible. I did it to myself and it took me a year to realize that. The spring season is reminding me of my own personal growth and that new beginnings and experiencing pain aren't always be a bad thing. I wouldn't be who I am today without it.
