Dating : Paris

Three days ago, I was watching the Netflix show ‘Surviving Death’ — a Buddhist teacher had recommended it. This episode was about signs passed between the living and the dead, signs that they still existed somewhere in some form. Butterflies, red balloons, and dated nickels appearing in unexpected places.

As I watched, thoughts continued to churn in the background of my mind about if I should contact you. It’s been nearly ten years since we first met, and a bit more than that since we last spoke. Yet, if I’m honest, your taste lingers in ways I can’t fully shake. And recently, in lockdowns, with plenty of space and time, with rising hot loneliness and transitions that unsettled the usual flow, you’ve bubbled up into my mind once again.

But I am afraid to contact you. Afraid of the door it might open, of what may rush through, or worse, if nothing seeps through at all.

So the show sparked this thought, “Universe, send me the word ‘Paris’ before I go to bed and I will take it as a sign to contact him”. Already evening, it felt pretty far-fetched. The programme finished and I resisted the lure of auto-play. Then I took a last glance at my phone before switching it off. I hadn’t yet turned off notifications for a new app, and there it was “Download your Paris stickers”. Truthfully, I don’t know exactly what it said, all I saw was the word Paris amid a twee message, finished off with a French flag emoji.

So, I backtracked on my deal with the universe… “Okay, actually I need it three times. Bring me ‘Paris’ three times in the next couple of days and then I will know you’re serious about wanting me to do this.”

The next day, distracting myself on the dating app Hinge, the first stranger’s profile asked, “Where is this photo taken?”. From the crisscrossed fence and grey cityscape below I recognised it from when my ex-boyfriend and I had climbed up the Eiffel Tower. “Paris!” I replied.

And then yesterday, on a meditation course, of all places, where I thought I could find sanctuary in some dharmic talk, there it came again… “Before lockdown, I used to tell people they could take their mindful walk on the way to the tube in London. Or Paris. Or the metro in New York.” And today, my friend who hasn’t been in touch for a couple of weeks text about the jobs in Paris she is applying for.

–

You invited me to Paris after we’d met only once, randomly, gloriously. I was cautious at first about seeing you again. I had been happy to live in the peace that there were men in the world like you, that I could connect with ease and grace to another. I’d been happy to leave it there. Yes, there had been magic, but there was also a whole ocean between us, and several years in age too.

But then, your suggestion. You would be in Paris, would I like to meet you there? After a few days, and a follow-up email from you saying you’d cover the costs (were you getting nervous that I wouldn’t reply?), I got back to you. I said yes — no wasn’t really an option inside of me — but would get my own ticket there, thank you.

You met me at Gare du Nord. We walked back to the hipster hotel, which was in keeping with your brand. I liked it. We laid on the bed, we stared at each other, talking, polite. And when the kissing began, everything melted. It was late afternoon, and we were meant to be going for dinner soon. I remember lying beneath you, both of us fully clothed, and you were straddling me, kneeling over me, staring down like you’d discovered treasure. As I looked up, you appeared to be shining, holy. If I was to paint that moment, you would have some kind of golden aura around you, and every detail of your face in fine lines.

In Paris, we went to the gravestones of Jimmy Hendrix’ (I didn’t know who he was, but didn’t admit it) and Edith Piaf’s (you didn’t know who she was, and I teased you, singing a little of ‘La Vie en Rose’). We walked along the Seine to a closed Musee d’Orsay, and back again the next day when it was open, but couldn’t find the painting I’d wanted to see, or that I wanted you to see, for us to see together: “The Origin of the World” by Gustave Courbet. Outside Notre Dame, as we looked up, me in front of you, I noticed our heights aligned for my head to rest just so on your shoulder. I spoke little French but with a good accent and felt sophisticated in that as you knew none. We walked passed live jazz. We ate. We drank. We tumbled. We grew nervous, or at least I did. There between us I felt a slither of a barrier, thin but sharp and present. Close up, I started to feel the gaps between us, the resistance, the pulling away, the fears.

Not long after that, when my life was emptying out, I got caught up in a fantasy of us, one in which I could hide from reality, and replay and reimagine stories, and imagine future encounters in full technicolor and full senses. I was intoxicated with the possibility of it all, the story of it all, and the deep coincidence and improbability of our crossing paths. And I was enchanted by the ways I discovered I could feel, and how I hadn’t even known I was thirsty.

Before Paris, when my head was still cool, I’d emailed you a quote from the book I was reading: “It is right to chide man for being blind to such coincidences in his daily life. For he thereby deprives his life a dimension of beauty.”