Paris // Jake Kiszka

Paris

You could feel the chill of white wine drip down your chest, pooling between your breasts and making a mockery of the silk blouse you'd bought to wear for the occasion. The shrill cry of the coolness against your skin turned heads, and they continued to watch as a flurry of apologies framed the mortified look on your face.

"Oh my god!" He cried, picking up the spilled glass in a vain attempt to rectify what he had done. "I am so sorry! Please, let me help you..."

You couldn't protest. His hands were already dabbing away at your ruined silk, the napkin he was using one that he had picked up off your table without so much as a second glance. It had all happened so quickly. One moment you were enjoying a glass of sauvignon outside a little Parisian café, the next you were wearing it.

"Oh shit, I really am so fucking sorry..." He continued, dropping the napkin once he realised he'd been dabbing away at your cleavage.

You hadn't looked up from the mess. Too engaged in how your top had now become so sheer there was no hiding what lie beneath it. You could feel your cheeks grow crimson, wishing that the ground would swallow you up and deliver you from this moment.

As you began to rise, he pulled out your chair. And you looked at him for the first time.

"Please. How can I make this up to you?" He asked, bearing his soul in the question.

He was waiting for you to say something, to absolve him of this mess which he had accidentally created. He peered at you over the top of his shades, his shirt open to the waist and a chain of doubloons hanging around his bare chest. There was a subtle sweetness to the way he cared so much for your welfare, having quite literally bumped into you only moments ago.

He was still peering at you at you realised you still hadn't responded.

"I'm ok, really..." You said, flustered, trying to pull your wet blouse of your jeans waist band.

"No, I insist." He continued, picking up your purse from the table and handing it to you to hide your dignity. "Where are you staying? Let me get you a cab. Or I could take you to buy something new? I really do feel awful. It's such a...nice...shirt."

The way he wanted to help you was endearing. He pulled off his shades to reveal concerned brown eyes, a furrowed brow that seemed almost pained at the inconvenience he had caused you.

"Honestly, I'm fine." You insisted, "My place is really too far away for a cab. And I can't accept your offer to buy me a new one."

He plunged his hands into his pockets and leaned back, intrigued now.

"Why can't you accept my offer?" He asked, in a tone which implied that he would not take no for an answer.

"Well, because you're a stranger and you really don't owe me that. It was an accident, could've happened to anyone." You reasoned, trying to smile politely as he appraised you.

"But it didn't happen to just anyone, did it?"

He was playing with you now, you could sense his shift from apologetic to interested. There was a devilish smile on his face, long strands of light brown hair sticking to the sweat around his neck in the warm Paris summer sun. You caught yourself staring a little too long.

"No, I don't suppose it did." You agreed, clutching your purse tightly.

You only let go when he extended his hand for you to shake, introducing himself with a mid-western accent that was completely out of place on the bustling street beneath the Eiffel Tower.

"I'm Jake." He said sweetly, the many bracelets clasped around his wrist almost chiming as he took your hand within his. "And you are?"

His smile turned into a smirk as you told him your name, realising you were slightly intimidated by his apparent kindness. Your intentions for the day slipping away from you as the moments went by. He wasn't going to let you walk away until he had rectified the situation.