Unspoken

Chapter 1

 Chapter One

 Blog Entry: Under Parisian Skies    

“ Cher ami, I am now reading a book under Parisian skies.. it looks like rain... people are

hurrying past me, but it matters not... I’m here...that’s what matters...“

     That would be me writing in my diary of an interlude with Paris. This long distance romance with the City of Lights was set in motion ever since I had watched a movie with Louis Jordan and Leslie Caron and listened to Mamu's stories of how she and grandpa met at the Versailles. Both got lost in the labyrinth, and then it started raining...

    Imagine. Walking under Parisian skies... and my favorite song playing in my mind. Woody Allen once said, “As long as you haven’t been kissed during any of those rainy Parisian afternoons, you haven’t been kissed at all.”

Here and Now 

 “Georgina, you need a boyfriend,” Becca said in her matter of fact tone. Her voice did not falter nor did her eyes look away. She could have said “Georgina, pass the butter,” and the effect would have been the same. Just by looking into my eyes she could tell when I last had a meal, when I needed a haircut, or if I needed a man. It didn’t occur to her that to me it could be like a slap in the face. But as she was my all time bestfriend, I didn’t really mind.

           “A boyfriend? ” My voice echoed my friend’s idea as if the meaning was so prehistoric it wouldn’t register in my brain. Luckily, there was only a sprinkling of people inside the Marygrace Café at High Street. My voice which was a tad higher than a hyena’s went unnoticed. The two of us were at our special nook, face to face, both caressing our drinks with our lonesome hands. It was a countrified café, the table with thick glasses under which there are endearing notes (loved your lemon pie, peach tea was awesome), and hanging above us were rectangular lanterns that must glow in the evening.

       “ Wouldn’t hurt, would it?”

      “You mean someone I need to worry about, when I am free as a bird? Anyway,that’s easier said than done. All the self made men I know who are the least bit attractive are either married or prefer their own sex,” I said hoping that my voice didn’t have the same desperation I felt.  “That is really not on top of my list right now. I have a dream. I want to go to Paris. I want to go there on my own. Just me. I’ve been saving up for that.”

          I brushed my bangs from my forehead and scanned the menu, “This is a trifle heavy on the sweet side.” I turned to the other page, “I’ll order light pasta to pair up with my bottled water.” Ever so careful to balance my caloric intake as when I eat salad with mayonnaise, I drink coke zero. Or, I forego with the oil and go with vinaigrette, things like that. Anything to keep my thighs from ballooning and triggering a manic depressive state.

             But Becca kept on going about it like I never said the word Paris. “There are many ways to hook a guy. Reconnoiter. You can even try surfing the internet,” she said while she deftly texted on her cell phone and drank peach iced tea at the same time.

           My pupils must have dilated. “No,no,no,no,no, I‘d rather die first than submit myself to male scrutiny in dating websites. “         

              A mocking grin spread all over her face, “I meant look up in the internet for articles on how to meet men, not look for dating websites.”

               Zoom. Close up of Becca’s face with green muck (cucumber magic, good for the skin) and eyes red rimmed with sleeplessness looking for dating websites at one o’clock in the morning. I say nothing.