Sally’s first Paris chapter. Her first day in Paris? Okay …. just jotting down thoughts right now …
A perfume, a silky scarf, a lover, a layered cake of extravaganza.
A maze of fantasies, flavors and favors. Lady of love. A courtship. It’s hard to describe what Paris is and feels like without resorting to tired cliches. Even so, each time Sally visits, she slips into Paris as if her favorite, wellworn silky dress, its sensuous caress at once soothing and full of promise. Here, her only obligation is to follow her impulse, from one desire to the next, letting Paris reveal the way.
She checks into her Marais hotel, choosing a small room with in-suite bathtub, plush pillows and a large ornate mirror on the wall up under the roof. A infinite sky of grey greets her through the slanted window. Who the hell goes to Paris in November? She turns on the water, adding a generous splash of bath oil, and begins to unpack her suitcase. This could be her home for the next month, unless of course, the pending adventure beckons something else. She feels the subtle hum of anticipation in the depth of her body. Her blind date arrives tonight. They are set to meet for late dinner at the …
Wait, it’s not what you think. This is strictly business. A platonic collaboration. At best a wild experiment. She doesn’t know the guy at all, true. They met in an online writers community, discussing their plans for the yearly Nano Writing challenge. Realizing she has no clue what to write this year, his idea of writing something together ignited a daring energy, a wicked desire to challenge him, or perhaps herself, and so, she invited him to Paris, to write a romance together.
Who the hell would go to Paris to write a romance with a stranger. Well, she would, and she could. She was free. No commitments at the moment. So why not?
Okay, okay, you probably wonder, why waste time on writing a romance instead of living it? She looks at herself in the mirror, searching her face for answers. Why. This. Now. It feels like she’s arrived at an impasse in her life, creatively, romantically. She’s a bit shocked to discover lines of tension between her brows. She was never one to feel bored, but if she’s honest with herself, that’s exactly what she is, bored. She needs change, a challenge, something to get her heart beating faster. Writing a romance in Paris tickles her fantasy, so surely, it would tickle others too?
When she told her girlfriend about this venture, she just lifted an eyebrow at her and said, really? In her mind, it’s impossible to write about love in the city of love without falling in love. Sally is not worried. She just want to feel in love with her life again. This guy, Rick, he’s a good writer, she likes his stories, but he’s no threat to her heart, not her type at all. Didn’t he say something about getting over a woman? Heartbreak is pathetic in Paris. She didn’t just say that. Pathetic. There’s nothing pathetic about heartbreaks. She’s had her fair share, all incredibly meaningful at their time. And, if you think about it, Paris is probably full of broken hearts in search of healing.
The bath steams up the mirror, the oil scent reminiscent of summer, a rose garden in bloom. Sally turns off the tap, drops her clothes to the floor and crawls into the tub, inch by inch submerging her naked body into the warm body of water. The heat of the water causes her skin to erect. Has she become jaded about love? She sinks back and rests her head on the edge. Her hands slide across her stomach, her breasts, liking the slippery feel of oil. This adventure would cure her. At least the place is right, and Paris has never failed her.