The moment you promise yourself anything — the heavens conspire to make sure it doesn’t happen. That’s what happened to me, one rainy evening in Paris. I’d promised myself: tonight, I’ll work.
The place was obvious — my favorite café in the Marais. The outfit — also obvious. If you’re in Paris, please, dress up for no reason at all. Because if not here, then where?
Tabis. A dress. Soft waves in my hair. Slightly darker lashes. And there I am, scribbling away on the 70th page of my book in a tiny bar with natural wines and vinyl playing. Back in the 16th century, this space used to be a wine warehouse owned by a grand madame who lived in the mansion across the street.
I wrote until my wrist hurt. Sipped some orange wine. Rolled a few cigarettes. Between paragraphs, I watched. The couples. The glances. The touches. The way they looked at each other — I almost believed in their love. But the moment the girl looked away, the French guy turned their gaze to me.
In the past six months, I’ve changed apartments 26 times. And learned one thing: My life base is simple. White sheets. Fresh flowers. Books. Candles. A notebook and a pen. The last two — only a certain brand.
That’s when he walked in. Stupidly handsome. Chestnut curls. A chic blazer. Blue eyes. Full lips. I thought, “Well. Hello, sweet pie.” And returned to my page.
He sat at the table next to mine. Pulled out the exact same notebook. The exact same pen. Drank “my” wine. Wrote — just like me. We caught eyes. Two twins. Two mirrors. Smiled.
— Hey, I’ll show you my notes if you tell me what you write!
We started talking at 5:30 PM. We finished — at five in the morning.
We talked. Walked. Found a secret little square. Kissed — by accident. The moment was just too right. What was I supposed to do? He was too handsome. His name was Johansen, or just Joe. My Danish prince.
An engineer — he designed external prosthetic organs for people whose bodies had failed them. He was in Paris for a summit. And flying back to Copenhagen the next morning.
He had perfect manners. And the courage to make me — me — knock over my wine glass from nerves. He lived in the middle of nowhere. And I so wanted to stay just a little longer with him. My rented attic apartment had just lost power. No light. No toilet. I had no choice.
While we wandered the streets talking nonstop, I discreetly booked a nearby hotel. Told him that’s where I lived. Invited him.
I hesitated. Even for me, this felt like… a lot. But the night — was incredible. One of those where he was just as wild as I was unhinged. By the third round, I was exhausted. Dawn was creeping in. He held me close in silence. My fingers traced his shoulder — and then I noticed: tiny scratches all over his body. No. Not scratches. Scars.
— What’s that?
— No one ever noticed before. Funny. Thing is, I used to hate my body, darling. It was a rough time. My mom’s been bedridden my whole life, and I’ve been taking care of her since I can remember. There were moments I didn’t want to go on. So… I cut myself. It helped. For a bit. But I’m fine now. I started working early, did well for my age. Mom’s okay. I’ve arranged everything. But I really can’t stay in Paris.
— I’m so sorry, Joe. Really. I don’t know what to say.
— Don’t say anything. Just come here, beautiful.
And that “last” time — he was so gentle. He looked me right in the eyes. Even smacked my ass… carefully.
He flew off with the first light. I was still asleep. I ordered room service breakfast. Took a hot bath. I stared at my body in the water for ages. How do people hurt themselves? How could someone so beautiful do that? How deep must the pain be, to live on the skin?
I didn’t get any work done. Racked up credit card debt. My body felt… lovely. And sore. Wait — what’s that?
A note on the table:
“Thank you.
I’ll always listen if you need.
This wasn’t your room, was it?
— Joe.”
With his Insta profile name.
