I am especially proud to submit this piece by Juan Vandendorp, because he chipped through four drafts to make this very tense, very tight,  a powerful expression of desire and longing.  This diligence shows respect for the reader and passion for the craft of writing. Everyone, in their own mind, has been to Paris.  Juan takes us their once more in this excellent submission to The Coffee Shop Chronicles.

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My Day Off

The Parisian subway train tore along the tunnel with a clumsy rhythm.  I took my eyes away from the window and leaned back against the upholstered seat; I glanced around the half empty car at the sad looking passengers. When we pulled in the station, I looked across the platform at a homeless man sound asleep on a bench, under a gigantic poster of a Simmons mattress.

It was then, when the doors slid shut and the train peered deep into the dark tunnel ahead, that I saw the woman. She stood by the door, reading a paperback that she held at eye level; her slim body rocked slightly to the movement of the train, her left hand clutched the overhead rail.  My body started shaking inexplicably, against my will.  I felt as if I had done something terribly wrong and was ashamed. My breathing became agitated and I gasped for air; were people looking at me? I forced my body to behave, and, positive that she could not see me, I explored her. Her skin was white, baby-like, and had a film of blond hair only I could notice. Her pale, blue eyes followed the pages with intent, oblivious to the world. I watched the woman’s Yves St Laurent navy two piece reflected in the window glass; I straightened my shirt collar and tried to hand iron my pants without success; I wiped my bald head with my hand and wished it didn’t look like a freeway. She reminded me of a young Charlotte Rampling, with her sad blue eyes and her graceful movements.

She got off at Montparnasse which was not my stop but I got up and started following her; I realized I had never followed anyone before. The cobblestones in the street were wet and dirty and the smell of urine rose from the gutter; she walked twenty meters ahead of me, a white rose in a charred battlefield.

She sat at a terrace and said to the waiter: “Un café, s’il vous plait.”  I went to the bar and ordered a coffee. I sipped it as I tried to see which book she was reading.  The waiter noticed that I was staring at the woman and smiled at me. I was embarrassed at my transparency, but my remote hope of meeting this woman was stronger than my shame. I stayed put.

After one hour, the woman got up and headed for the metro entrance at Montparnasse; I started after her, feeling a bit edgy from that strong Parisian coffee. She went into a book shop at la rue Duret and I paced outside, entertaining possible scenarios to approach her. A handsome young man went by and I wished I could have snatched his body for a minute. I was thinking of James Bond when the woman stepped out, walked a few meters and sat at yet another terrace with a red awning and waiters wearing white aprons over black pants. Paris and these over-caffeinated Parisians, I thought.

“Et pour Monsieur?” I heard a half-whispered voice behind me. I was startled, and reflexively told the waiter, “Un espresso”.  The woman had bought a book by Jorge Luis Borges whom I happened to know; my chest beat hard as some part of me plotted to sit at her table; the sound of the steaming demitasse the waiter delivered upon the table made the sharp ping of a judge’s gavel, sentencing me to remain still.

The woman found the book fascinating for she read forever, and had three more cups of coffee; I kept up with the caffeine intake and by now I was shaking like a snare drum and kept switching positions in my chair. But this was battle, I thought, this was war; my bladder would have to wait and losing my kidneys was a small price to pay to be in a cosmic scene with her.

She kept reading in the metro and got off at Bir Hakeim, followed by a group of Japanese teenagers with dangling cameras. She walked along the deserted banks of the Seine toward the Eiffel Tower.

“This is it,” I thought. My heart beat fast; I hurried down the stairs and there she was, strolling past a wooden bench with the Eiffel Tower in the background. I got close to her but when I was ten feet away all I could do was stop, terrified that she would turn around and see me. My heart wanted out of my chest, my legs shook. I stopped and saw her blond hair against the navy blue jacket become smaller and smaller. She climbed the stairs to the Avenue de Suffren and I watched her leave my life; a sailboat on the Seine caught my eye and I thought that I had never seen one before.

That night the five espressos kept me awake; I started imagining the two of us together. I stared at the humidity stain on the ceiling for a long time and listened to the moaning coming from my neighbor’s apartment.

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