To prevent the expected, unoriginal and overly stereotypical
description of "My trip to Paris" I've decided to summarize my
experience in a series of short stories. For those who know me well enough to
safely say that I haven't a clue of what the word short truly means, I hope
to demonstrate otherwise. (Although I don't blame them for laughing at my
attempt.)
"Phase one, in which Darious gets her oats..."
Two giddy girls and a bottle of the finest of cheap French wine, a
beautiful river that divides a great city and an immortal cathedral with
water spewing monsters. Daintily prancing and drunkenly dancing, the two sip,
walk and talk as they near a most interesting situation. To their left stands
seven young men who quietly murmur and gesture to the faded stars as they
smoke their hash cigarettes. To their right a man and a woman sit on a
bench and whisper sweet nothings into each other's ears. Straight ahead two
small children kick an empty can back and forward, ignoring the cathedral
that towers above them.
The older of the two girls is an observer, a motherly type, whose
green eyes survey the scene and fall on the seven smokers to her right. She
smiles and awaits their friendly approach. The second girl wildly giggles,
dimples and all, and expresses her fondness for the Cathedral ahead. They
stop talking and watch two of the seven smokers walk toward them.
"Pardon Mademoiselles," spoke one. "I could not help
but notice that you have an empty bottle of wine." He was handsome. Dark
hair and dark eyes, perfectly tan skin, lips that gently spread across his
face as he smiled and a body that stole the observer's motherly intentions.
He handed the green-eyed girl a half-drunken bottle of wine and stroked her
red hair as he slowly wrapped his arm around her.
"Parlez vous Francais," inquired the other man, "do
you ladies speak French?" Although he spoke in English and French the
man was Italian. He was not entirely handsome, but one would not presume to
call him un-attractive. He had a sort of boyish charm despite the wrinkles
and roughness of his face. When he heard the giggly girl's attempted response
in French, he instantly struck up a (limited) conversation with her. As she
spoke to him she found that he was not only Italian but Algerian as well.
His mother lived in Italy and his Father in Algeria. His father was not a
slave owner, but a good man who lived like any other. As the four mingled,
the young couple to their right quietly left, their sweet nothings tip-toeing
toward an anticipated engagement.
The ruby and the raven however, unable to mingle quite successfully,
sat in sweet silence. A universal conversation that consisted of blushes and
bashful smiles. Eventually, his arm still around her waist, he whispered the
solitary English phrase that every French man knew and used in situations
such as these.
"You are beautiful," he said. "You know I love you.
You are the most beautiful girl I have ever seen."
"How funny," the girl whispered back, "Pierre down
the street seemed to feel the same way."
"I don't understand," he said in French and continued to
hold her. The can that the two children were playing with crashed beside her
feet. She promptly got up, kicked it back and sat down again to look upon her
pursuer. He motioned to his cigarettes. She smiled and he began to role.
The next fellow that arrived was an obvious scoundrel. He had sharp,
beady eyes and a grin that was so sly that his gold teeth made him no more of
a rogue. He eagerly grabbed the seat next to the giggly a girl, a blond
beauty with deep ocean-blue eyes, and attempted a conversation with her. She
was busy chattering with the Italian-Algerian fellow and neglected the
knave's company. He, with his whiskey scented breath, turned toward the red
head and spoke.
"Bonjour. Bon Soir Mademoiselle. Ca-va?" He leaned forward
to kiss her cheeks and then drunkenly attempted to reach her lips. The young
man beside her strongly disapproved. He pushed the new-comer away and held
her closer.
"Bon. Bon," she said, laughing to herself. The rat tried
to say something else but she interrupted him, "Je ne sais pas (I don't
know). Je ne parle pas Francais. (I don't speak French)."
"I see," he mumbled and started singing to her.
Again the young man, who was so territorially guarding her, highly
disapproved of the rat's actions. He stood and with a quick flick of his
wrist, he spun her into his arms. Tap, Tap went her shoes and they proceeded
to walk away from the other three individuals. He mumbled something in French
and she smiled.
"Alexis," she called. Alexis followed with her
Italian-Algerian friend. His arms were around her and she was all giggles.
The third fellow quickly ran up to the first couple and continued singing
into the girl's ear. Her guardian placed sweet kisses upon her cheek and
repeated his solitary English phrase. She smiled and returned his favors.
Welcome, sweet thoughts.
"So which do you prefer?" inquired the raven.
"The purr-fectly poetic." replied the ruby.
How wistful was the walk. How charming were the fellows. Nearing the
drunken departure, our shortened farewell, the moon was waning and the two
young maidens felt weary. Pleasant kisses were bestowed upon each and as a
floating clock reminded them of home, their feet began to whisk them away.
Moments of perfection, cruelly stolen by the rat, dwindled in the distance
and left with the wind.
"Au revoir. Au revoir," sang the girls.
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