A kiss with a fist

A Better Way To Be

There aren't any rules to running away from your problems. No checklist of things to cross off. No instructions. Eeny, meeny, pick a path and go. That's how we do it anyway.

Paris is beautiful, more so then the previous times before now. Maybe it is because I am finally free of the burden that I have been under all these years. For the first time in my life I am seeing things as they truly are and articulating everything with precise vision.

The continual changes of the flex of the mouth and around the eyes. The skin, the sun-burnt shade, freckles, hair. It was all familiar subjects but somehow seemed so different. Damian was busy doing business, a meeting, then he would be back tonight for us to finish our final mission, ever, I hope.

So I am roaming the streets of Paris; most of which I have spent eating. Bread from Du Pain et des Idées, fromage at Androuët, and the most mouth watering macaroons at Pierre Hermé.

I was sitting out in the terrace of a small coffee shop, people watching. I sipped on my coffee and snacked on macaroons while I imagined the lives of all who passed by me. Some who walked pass would give a friendly smile and a nod. I checked my watch that read the time of a quarter to twelve which meant I still had two hours to kill until Damian would be back. I groaned thinking of what else I could do when truth be told it's hard to find yourself in this situation while in Paris. It's almost as if you could never run out of things to do. I decided on spending a few more minutes here before taking off to Marché aux Puces St.-Ouen de Clignancourt (the flea market), which happened to be an attraction on the weekends.

In the midst of my thinking a hot liquid spilled onto my lap. I jumped out of my seat cursing the woman out in front of me.

"Je suis profondément désolé si mam, êtes-vous d'accord?" She asked sympathetically, her hands running over her aged porcelain doll-like face.

I mentally thanked Ace for the lessons in foreign languages, "Non, je ne suis pas d'accord! votre thé chaud brûle ma peau damnés!" I shot back at her bitterly.

She then had the decency to laugh, "you must be American, oui? Your French is poor..."

I glared at her, "my French is perfect!"

"Oui!" Her head nodded in agreement, "however, miss, it is very easy to tell to us natives that you are not from here."

I took a deep breath glancing down at my wet jeans. My skin no longer burned but I prayed that I wouldn't blister up. True it had been rather painful but nothing close to what I have felt in the past.

"I feel horrible about this..." She trailed off, "I live just a few blocks down this street, I would be more than happy to help you clean up and give you a ride back home." Her English was poorly spoken but still prime enough for me to understand.

I wanted to say no to this woman but in the state I'm in it's nearly impossible to turn down the offer. "Fine." I finally said back.

We walked down the few blocks passing shop after shop, she chatted up a storm to me but I rarely responded without a mere "oh" or "true" because I had no interest speaking to this woman.

Her house is very nice, clean, and well decorated. She offered to grab me a pair of jeans that her daughter left behind after she left for collage. I felt disgusted in wearing somebody else's clothes that I didn't even know but I was desperate. While she searched for the jeans I took in the things in her home but my eyes were stuck on the piano top covered in framed photos of whom I assumed was her family. One specifically being of her and a young boy; her son I presume.

"That is my son, wasn't he just the cutest thing?" She laughed lightly, holding the folded jeans in her arms. "See that photo there?" She pointed to the photo a few down from the previous one. "That's him now, Damian always hated posing for photographs. This one was practically impossible to get."