||[Apr. 29th, 1992|01:17 am]
Close call this afternoon. I was waiting for Vivianne outside of her office building when I saw Jennifer come by. I ducked into the nearest store to hide from her, as Vivianne was expected any minute. The store was a tobacco shop, and to kill time while Jennifer lingered outside, I browsed the postcard rack. I don't know what she was doing there, but the longer she stayed, the dirtier the looks I got from the tobacconist. I had to pick out a few ridiculously priced postcards (4 francs each!) before wandering further back in the store.|
By then, Jennifer was still outside the store and Vivianne was probably walking out of her building next door. What was Jennifer doing there? I ducked behind a large humidor as I saw Jennifer peek through the front window. Fortuntaly, the store was dimly lit and it was very sunny outside, so I knew she wouldn't see me. Finally, she left. I crept closer to the door and saw her disappear across the street. I waited a few minutes and then, satisfied she was gone, I started to leave.
But, I forgot about the postcards in my hand, which the tobacconist did not. "Excusez-moi?" I heard. Oh, shit, I thought. I went to pay him. As I fished through my pockets for some francs, I looked at him. He was a surly, skinny old man with white hair. His pipe was lit, and smelled wonderful. He looked like my 10th grade English teacher, Mr. Ross. Not finding enough small change in my pocket, I had to page with a 1000 franc bill, which pissed him off more than my presence in his store did. Finally, I was able to leave.
I ran out of the store and almost collided with Vivianne. She had been waiting for more than a few minutes, I could tell. "Bonjour," I said.
"Where have you been, John?"
"In there." I gestured behind me to the store. The tobacconist was standing by the door, glaring at me.
"Do you smoke?"
"No, you know that."
"Then why were you in there?" I showed her the postcards and she nodded, finally understanding.
We left and headed to her apartment. Since it's getting warmer and warmer everyday now, she wanted to take a shower. I offered to join her, and she nodded, almost reluctantly. She told me about an old boyfriend who used to pee on her in the shower. I told her that wasn't me and she nodded again. I could sense her unasked question: But, who are you? It was on both of our minds as we undressed for each other.
Her bathroom has a small shower stall and we squeezed in there. We soaped each other up, groping and sharing soapy kisses under the hot spray.
(to be continued)