CHARLOTTE
Once out of the collabos’ brasserie, I began to feel better. It must have been the wine making me overemotional like that. I needed to calm down, but my head was spinning, my thoughts all mixed up. Jean-Luc kept his arm tightly around me, using his other for the cane. It made me feel safer. But no one was safe. No one. For a while we walked in silence, my sniffles gradually subsiding. Soon we found ourselves on Rue Saint-Denis.
“Come on. Let’s go in here.” He took my hand, pulling me into a bar. I didn’t want another drink; my senses were out of control. Mixed feelings of loss, guilt, and longing swirled through my head. I didn’t know what I might do next.
But he ordered wine for us both.
And I drank it.
We sat on stools at the bar—it was cheaper to drink there, and anyway there were Boches with their women at the three tables behind. I stared at them for a moment, taking in the dark uniforms of the men and the bare legs of the women; they’d drawn thin lines down the backs of them in a sad attempt to make it look like they were wearing stockings. Honestly, who did they think they were kidding? And why did they bother? They thought it looked classy, I guess. Classy! I bet the Boches thought they looked classy too in their smart uniforms. It was all so false. I felt sorry for the women, faking it for the Boches. I hoped they would manage to steal favors in return for giving nothing more away than a superficial smile and a false laugh.
I turned back toward Jean-Luc, my head spinning. I gazed into his warm brown eyes that weren’t exactly brown and sensed a stirring inside me, like a magnetic force pulling me toward him. There was nothing false about him. He was good. I felt myself toppling toward him, my hands landing on his knees. Straightening my spine and removing my hands, I looked him in the eye again. But it only made me feel even more unsteady.
“Charlotte.”
I closed my eyes, listening to the sound of my name on his tongue.
“I think you’ve had too much to drink. It’s my fault. I’m sorry. I should take you home.”
“No!” I laughed, surprised at the sudden determination in my voice. “I like it here. Let’s have some more wine.” This time I fell right off my stool into his arms. Tilting my face up, I saw his lopsided smile. That was what did it. His smile. I pulled myself up, putting my arms around his shoulders. And I kissed him. It wasn’t a soft kiss like his had been. It was a furious kiss. A desperate kiss. I wanted it to transport me. Far away.
Whistling and laughing interrupted us. I felt him pull away. The Boches were clapping. I heard one say, “Now that is a proper French kiss.”
Jean-Luc threw some coins on the bar and took my hand. “Let’s go.” He was mad, I could tell. I’d embarrassed him.
Once outside, he pulled me around the corner. Then he dropped my hand and I heard his cane fall to the ground. He wrapped his arms around me, holding me tight. His lips found mine, and I could feel his breath coming hard. He tasted of salt, like the sea. Like freedom. I don’t know how long we stood there breathing into each other as though we were in fear of drowning, our hearts pounding. When his lips finally left mine, I just wanted to sink into him and forget the rest.
“Charlotte,” he whispered in my ear. “Let’s run away together.”
It was all I wanted right there in that moment.