Nicole left for Amsterdam for the night with Jason. We were in Paris for Spring Break—her parents paid for the whole thing, luckily, because Lord knows I was broke as hell. I tried smoking weed for the first time on the streets of Paris the night before. I got so high at the restaurant we were at, I was literally coloring on the napkins.
So I’m in our Airbnb in the Bastille doing my hair and makeup. The airbnb was cute—Nicole found it—it had a little loft where the bed was. The ground was covered in clothes from our luggage. Putting some bright red lipstick on, I decide that I’m going to take myself out to dinner. You know, treat myself. Nicole’s gone, and I’m alone, so what the hell else am I going to do.
I walk out the door of the Airbnb and feel the crisp March night air on my bronzed and blushed face. I didn’t have a reservation anywhere, so I wandered the streets of the Bastille. I stopped to take iPhone photos of some graffiti I saw on the side of the road that felt artistic to me. I kept walking until I found a little unassuming corner bistro with candles shining through the windows.
“Hi, can I have a table for one?” It was a local place, so I could tell they were annoyed I didn’t speak French. Why the hell didn’t I take French when I was in high school? My dad thought Spanish would be more useful. I’ll never regret that more than tonight.
The hostess seats me. I’m at a little white table by myself. I look around at the locals sitting at the bar while I wait.
Then she walks over to me.
My waitress is standing in front of me, with olive skin and bright blue eyes. She had long brown hair cascading down her back. Her lips were full and painted in bright red lipstick, just like mine. She wore a white button down shirt—work appropriate—but her round breasts filled it out perfectly. You could see her cleavage poking out of the top undone button, with a small gold cross around her neck glimmering in between her breasts. She was one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen.
“Can I get you anything to drink?” She asks me in broken English, a mixed accent breaking through. I’m so mesmerized by her beauty that I’m barely able to respond.
“You know what? I want you to order for me tonight.” I let her order my whole meal, from wine to steak.
“What nationality are you?” I ask.
“Brazilian and French. I moved here from Brazil alone when I was 17.”
We chatted some more. Then the chatting turned to flirting. She sat at the table with me and sipped my wine.
“My shift ends at 9, want to come out with me after?” There was nothing I wanted to do more in the moment.
“Yes.”
So I have a few more glasses of red wine while I wait for her shift to end. She comes over to my table with her coat on and takes my hand.
“Let’s go.”
I follow this beautiful stranger out into the streets of Paris, holding hands, running into the night. She takes me to an apartment in the Bastille where a group of roommates sit, speaking French, smoking weed. She gets me more wine, I smoke the blunt being passed around.
“American girl, where are you from?” One of the roommates asks me.
“Boston.”
We chat with the group for awhile. But soon she touches my hand, signaling that it’s time. We stand up and she leads me into her bedroom. Immediately, our red lipstick starts to smudge. I’ll leave the rest to your imagination.