Page 104 of Darling

He’s leaning against the stacks, hands in the pockets of his dark coat, neat beard cut close, and a small, hesitant smile on his face.

“Hello, darling,” he says.

??

The bar we choose is a quiet one a few streets back from the bookstore, dimly lit and cozy. A typical French bistro kind of bar. The waiter offers to take our jackets, but I leave mine on and Christian opts to hold onto his too, and then we’re being led to a small round table a little way into the space. There’s banquette seating on one side, wooden chairs on the other. I take the chair.

I can’t stop staring at him, checking it’s really him, pinching the inside of my thumb, checking I’m really me. There’d been nothing more in the bookstore except an invite from him to get a drink somewhere. We’d made weird small talk as we walked to a place he knew, about how busy Paris was this time of year, about how pretty it was at night, about the ancient architecture. It was bizarre. Now, here, it feels more like what I’m used to withhim; low simmering desire, feral lust, deep, deep longing curling around every nerve and limb.

Christian orders a large glass of red wine, I order a beer, and we stare at each other while the waiter pours them three feet from us behind a small corner bar.

“So, why are you in Paris?” I ask.

“I’m on a sort of book tour…” He sounds embarrassed about it.

“What’s asort ofbook tour?”

The soft, low laugh he lets out goes straight to my dick, same way it always did.

“It’s where you write a book and people tell you that you have to promote it but you’re quite dreadful at it.” The waiter comes and sets our drinks down and Christian reaches forward immediately to take a long sip of his wine.

“Am I in it?” I ask when we’re alone again. “Your book.”

“It would be a far better book if you were.”

“Obviously,” I say as I reach forward to lift my beer. I’m unable to take my eyes off him as I drink.

“So, you’re in art school,” he says.

“Already graduated porn school so yeah, here I am.”

He laughs that same low laugh, but his eyes go soft and tender.

“I’m proud of you, sweetheart.”

I look down at the table because my throat feels weird, like I might be about to cry. There’s a swell of something inside me, threatening to overcome, and I can’t tell if it’s nerves or desire or love or sadness.

“Um, thanks.” I shrug slightly. “It sort of happened by accident but I’m loving it, I’ve learned loads. I’m doing fine art and design. I graduate in a few weeks, so I just have to figure out how to make a living now, which everyone here seems to thinkis easy enough, but they wanna work for fashion designers and museums, and I don’t really wanna do either of those so...” I’m rambling. I lift my beer to shut myself up.

“And you’ll go back to America after you graduate?”

I wipe my mouth. “I’m not sure. I have a gallery show in LA in a couple months. Jacob, the guy from your party, it’s his gallery. He really likes what I do. Uh, but after that I’m not sure. I love it here, but I’d like to see more of the world.”

He nods, studying me very closely. “Yes, I imagine you do.”

“So, if you’re writing books… does that mean you’re not Prime Minister?” There’s a hopeful lilt to my voice.

Another warm smile. “I’m no longer in politics at all, actually.”

I nod and take another deep pull from the bottle. “Good. I mean, I’m glad. You didn’t seem happy doing that back then. And you seem good now, more relaxed. Though I’m only seeing you now, here, so I don’t know, maybe you’re not relaxed writing books, either. But if you left politics, then you had your reasons, and they’d have been good ones, so…yeah, good. I’m glad.” Good. Glad. Glad. Good.Shut the fuck up, Thomas.

“I’ve been doing well, sweetheart.”

“Good.” Oh, for fucks sake. “So, like, did you know I was in Paris, or is this just acompletely casual coincidence?”

He remembers and smiles at the reference.

“Shakespeare was a coincidence, but I knew you were in Paris, yes.”