Nobody's Interesting Life

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...

I left Kiyoko's for Le Danton . There was still enough room in the day to get some work done. On my way there I saw that Before the Devil Knows Your Dead was just about to start at the UGC cinema. The days wasted anyway, I justified. I bought a ticket, some candy and a beverage, and found a good seat in the theater. The film started. Immediately I was filled with nostalgia. I missed making films. I missed acting. Since I was very young, people had been telling me I resembled Ethan Hawke. It was one of the few comparisons I actually believed to be true. I didn't find it to be a compliment, nor did I think it was an insult. We did look alike. Same oblong face, jaw, nose, and big ears. I even got a job as his double once. The point of it all is that I feel a certain affinity with the actor. I didn't mind his performances, found him intelligent, thought he made a lot of good choices, and to top it off, he wrote decent literature. Not a bad guy at all. Compare me all you want...

"Do you like Murakami?" Kiyoko asked, seeing me with the book. "One of the few contemporary authors I read. Always wondered what he's like in Japanese." "Probably same." "Probably, " I said. " 'Language is dead' they say, but I think that's only an excuse for bad writing. She brought the tea. "I don't understand." "Nevermind. Not important." I sipped the tea. It burned my lips and tongue. I quickly pulled the cup away from my mouth. "Careful, it's very hot!" "Yeah," I laughed and so did she. "Let it cool down a little. I put the cup down on the table. "So where are these clothes?" "Hm! Follow!" Kiyoko sprouted into action like someone shot off a starter pistol and led me to one of the many racks of clothes. She slid some pieces aside and pulled out a light grey suit, presenting it to me like a newborn baby. She located a generic, white Calvin Klein dress...

Kiyoko lived about five minutes away from Saint-Michel. I arrived at her building ten minutes after eleven and called her from downstairs. "Moshi, moshi," she answered. "I'm here," I said. "Okay! I'm on second floor, 2A." A loud buzzer went off and I pushed open the massive door. "I'm in," I told her. "Yay!" And she hung up. The interior of the building, like the exterior, was old but well maintained. The staircase was wide and covered with a worn blue carpet. Two thriving jade plants guarded the base of the steps. I heard a door open. "Here," Kiyoko called down. I walked up two flights and met her outside her door. She was wearing black short shorts, a white tank top, and a yellow bra. Her legs were very thin, very smooth, and very pale, as if they had never been touched by the sun or the outside world. I wondered if they had. Her hair was tied back in a taut pony tail. She was beautiful effortlessly. She nodded a...

Kiyoko was studying fashion at the Marangoni Institute. She had been in Paris for almost a year, arriving from Tokyo a few months before the start of her classes the previous fall. We talked for nearly two hours, only breaking from our conversation to answer occasional questions from Andre's replacement and occasional compliments to me from Parisian men regarding the beauty of my girlfriend. The compliments were for Kiyoko's benefit and I believe in hopes that I would offer the information that she was indeed not my girlfriend. I made no such offer. Kiyoko was a master at the smile and blush and she used them to full effect upon receiving the two or three advances. "Parisian men sure love Asian women," I laughed. "They love all women," she said. I couldn't argue. When we couldn't possibly stay at Le Danton any longer, we left. Walking along the sidewalk, Kiyoko asked me if I'd model some clothes for her. She had a few pieces for men and thought t...