Paris // Jake Kiszka

Paris

"Listen, I know this might sound a little forward of me. But I'd never be able to live with myself if I just let you walk away like that." He stepped out and began pointing towards a building, replacing his shades as the sun hit his face. "I'm staying in a little apartment just down there, I've got many clean shirts and I'd be happy to let you wear one, so you don't have to walk around Paris like it's a wet t-shirt competition."

You couldn't help but giggle. And he seemed to like the fact you'd softened to him. The intensity in which he looked at you sent the blood rushing to your head. Nobody had ever looked at you like that before, as if they could ruin you with one glance.

He wasn't cocky, though. Which was all you had ever encountered before. A staunch dislike of dating men who seemed intent on making you theirs with bold proclamations of their strengths. You knew, perhaps, that this man had all the proclivity to get whatever he desired but there was no arrogance attached to it.

Or, perhaps, he simply wanted to give you a clean shirt to wear so that your breasts weren't paraded through the streets unwillingly.

"You won't take no for an answer, will you?" You finally conceded, and he laughed nervously.

"Of course I will take no for an answer. When a woman says no, then who am I to argue? But I would feel a lot better knowing that my clumsiness didn't ruin your day entirely. If you would allow me to remedy that for you, I'd be grateful."

There was an edge to his request. An innocence to his wanting to help you. You turned and looked down the street to where he had pointed to a row of doors with Juliette balconies above them. Some of them were open, curtains fanning out in the breeze. You'd be seen entering. And you'd be seen exiting.

"Alright, then." You said quietly, allowing him to lead the way.

The walk required meandering through people, your purse still attached firmly to your body as you navigated the busy street. Jake kept a pace which meant he was always a step or two ahead, ensuring you had space to move. You noticed how he reached his arm out, leading you in a subtle gentlemanly way. He asked you questions about yourself, distracting you from the eyes which noticed your predicament. He asked you why you were in Paris alone, what had brought you there. He asked you what you did for a living and all the nuances that went into doing your job. You found yourself responding openly, candidly. Afraid that already, he had done too much for you.

"What about you?" You asked, "What brings you to Paris alone?"

He stopped outside a red door with a brass door knocker and pulled out a set of keys from his tailored pockets.

"Uh, well..." He began, searching for the right key on a set that included way too many. "I'm a musician and we're on a break from touring and our last show was in London so I figured I'd come here for a few days. Check out some galleries and museums. Spill wine down beautiful women's shirts..."

His joke had been well intentioned, but you could see the flush to his cheeks as he realised he had called you beautiful. He cursed under his breath as he found the right key and opened the door for you to step inside first.

He followed you up a set of communal stairs, the jingle of his bracelets and keys sounding out as you reached a second red door. This time he had the key already selected and once again opened it for you to step inside before him.

"Excuse the mess." He said, strangely returning to that apologetic man he had initially been. "I don't really unpack, I just take things out of my case and put them back at the end of my trip."

The apartment was like anything you'd imagine so close to the Tower. White walls adorned with paintings and dark wooden tables with vases filled with fresh flowers. You ran to the balcony, peering out at the view which included the arches of the Tower above. You couldn't help it. It was the sort of place you could have only dreamed of staying in. You realised he was watching you, as you looked back and felt yourself drift into a dream.