Nobody's Interesting Life

SEVERAL WEEKS WENT BY. My relationship with Madeleine completely deteriorated.  What was broken before was irreparable now. We had hid it under the bed for so long without talking about it. Now it was brought out into the open and we talked around it. I slept in my own bed, in my own apartment most days of the week – a rarity before Brigitte. Madeleine stopped asking why. Partly because she didn’t want to know the truth, and partly for what further inquiry would do to her self-esteem. At least this was my interpretation. We loved each other, but it was not enough. She loved me, but she needed to feel loved. I loved her, but I was excited about somebody else. I had spoiled it. I had spoiled it rotten. And I was angry with myself for doing so. When you affront love, love always wins.  Only a fool takes it for granted. And I was most certainly a fool. Things went on this way for some time. We sleepwalked through our relationship and fought without energy, prolonging the en...

IT WAS SHORTLY AFTER 2:00 PM when I left Brigitte's. I needed the time to think, so I decided to walk home. A large part of me wanted to tell Madeleine exactly what happened, but I knew I couldn't. What right did I have to ruin her ability to trust future lovers? Or maybe I was justifying keeping my indiscretion hidden. Either way, what we had was over. At the very least it was permanently altered. No, it was over. This was the first time I had crossed the line with another woman and I wasn't about to soil whatever was sprouting. I was a picaro, but Brigitte had tapped into something so far inside me I thought it had long since left. Once upon a time, everything was pure and beautiful. That was all gone now. But with her I thought maybe I could have something like it again, without the naivety of the other times. So I'd tell Madeleine I'd lost my phone. And I'd tell myself it was for her sake.  I thought briefly about tossing it into the seine. Then I thought...

MY EYES OPENED and it was morning. I was still in Brigitte's bed and I was still naked. As was she. If she was awake she was hiding it well. Despite my predicament I held no inclination of rushing out. I fetched my jeans from the floor and put them on. Grabbed my underwear, folded it tightly and shoved it in my back pocket. Brigitte's voice startled me. "Why are you putting Calvin in your pocket?" "They're dirty," I responded. Somehow this answer was satisfactory. "Want breakfast?" she asked. "Where?" "Here. I can make pancakes or ham and eggs." Evidently she was in no hurry to get rid of me either. I was glad. "Pancakes sound grand." "Grand," she repeated. "What are you, from the nineteen-thirties?" "Yes, " I replied. To this she said nothing, but pulled the covers away without shame, her tight, unblemished skin and tiny breasts welcoming the sunlight. "Mind if I shower first?...

We crossed the Seine at Pont Des Arts , which Brigitte informed was her favorite bridge, and continued on towards the Louvre Hotel. During our walk we discussed paintings we liked, the beauty of Paris, the excitements of China and Japan, and everything from religion to our favorite season. We also held several long stretches where neither of us said a thing, and neither of us felt uncomfortable about it. The night was calm and rewarding like most nights in Paris and all I could think about was the potential for sex at the end of it and the consequences of tomorrow. Her aunt's place was a few minutes from the Louvre Hotel. Brigitte produced a mess of a key chain with multiple trinkets hanging off it and opened the door with one of what must have been fifteen or twenty keys. "I used to believe the number of keys on a key chain were a sign of success," I said. "How come?" she asked. "Keys to a house, a car, a cottage, work, you know, on and on..."...

Somehow it was past midnight. Not particularly late by any stretch of the imagination, but late enough for Madeleine to wonder where I was and why I hadn't called. The display on my Nokia informed me I had three missed calls, two text messages and a voice mail - all from her. No one was the wiser since I had turned my ringer off before the movie and never bothered to turn it back on afterwards. As we stepped outside, Patrick suggested we all share a cab. I was the first to back out saying how I felt bad enough for crashing their date and didn't want to deprive them of a romantic taxi ride. Patrick quickly pointed out it was not a date and was about to try and change my mind, when Brigitte interjected with the fact that her aunt's place was in the opposite direction anyway. Still trying to honour what was left of the "man code" and against every urge in my mind and body, I insisted I'd take the métro and bid my friend and potential lover a good evening. I exc...

My pie was blueberry. Brigitte had apple crumble à la mode. I don't remember what Patrick ate, though I am pretty sure it was cake. We talked about actors and actresses. About Ethan Hawke. About Sydney Lumet. About movies. Two hours flew by without a lull in the conversation. Brigitte had an impressive knowledge of film, rivaling my own. I admired her fondness of the Coen brothers and forgave her for worshiping David Lynch. My past as an actor and director impressed her and she made me promise to show her some of my work. When the conversation turned to music we found our tastes to be equally eclectic, crossing paths in the middle with Nina Simone and Serge Gainsbourg and dividing somewhere on the outer spectrum with underground hip hop for me and what can perhaps best be described as experimental trip hop for her. Her ethnicity was a mix of Chinese on her father's side and Cambodian and East Indian on her mother's side. Her parents had moved to Hong Kong just before the Kh...