Page 33

33

Jonathan

I am the last romantic in France.

What am I doing? I am not thinking with my head. At least not the one on the top of my neck.

I got caught up in the moment. I said things I did not mean—not that I want to take them back.

But what am I doing? What am I going to do? We have to separate eventually—that much is clear—but I can fit a lot into the spaces between the letters of that word: e-v-e-n-t-u-a-l-l-y.

And I am competitive. I cannot just let her win like that, like she was cheating at a game before we started playing.

On the way back to the room, I ask her, “You didn’t come, did you?”

And she says serenely, “No.” Pure evil.

She waits outside the door. I have the key. My hands are slightly shaking—still—like they are the only ones admitting how much trouble I am in.

I let her into the room. I lock the door. I feel crazy, confused, inconvenienced in the best way.

“Do you want to go to Barcelona?” I ask. I do not have any reason to be in Barcelona, although I can probably pick up a job once we separate. Eventually.

I want to go somewhere— anywhere —because I need to get her away from Paris. My heart is in Paris, and if she gets too close, she will find it. Besides, I like Barcelona.

Go to Barcelona. Beat her at the sex. Clear my mind, and everything will be fine.

I do not remind myself that the sex we just had was supposed to fix everything, unglue her from my consciousness. I do not remind myself that it did not work.

“Why?” she asks.

I consider. “Have you ever been to La Sagrada Família?”

She shakes her head.

“Well, you need to go.” It is that important.

“Barcelona,” she repeats, tasting the word. “Sure.”

A beat. “Now?”

She looks around us, at the florgasm hotel room. “Okay.”