Paris Adieu #featured #Wattys2017

Chapter 8 - Life in the Present Moment

Meanwhile, the azure blue sky smiled down on me, and the river looked almost clean. I had just experienced my first orgasm. My lover and I had plans to meet again that evening. I would get through this moment.

I hadn't been raised in a doctor's household for nothing. Most of the time, I thought of my down-to-earth, New England upbringing as a millstone around my neck, but every once in a while, it came in handy.

My grandfather had taken me on occasional house calls when I'd been a young girl. I'd enjoyed them, holding the hands of blue-haired ladies in big homes filled with antiques and musty smells. On other occasions, we'd visit funeral homes, where my grandfather signed paperwork and chatted with the man in charge. Since my grandfather was relatively old, his patients were, too. It wasn't uncommon for one to die, whereupon my grandfather would be called in to confirm the death and sign the death certificate. While he was busy, I'd wander around the funeral home, invariably going over to the casket to check its contents. Usually, it would be another one of the blue-haired ladies in peaceful repose, eyebrows penciled in, wearing attractive pearls and immaculately applied red lipstick. Sometimes, it was a bald-haired old man, distinguished and proper, in an impeccable black suit, hands folded on stomach.

At the age of seven or so, I never found these tableaus morbid. They seemed natural, a sort of pleasant end to the prosperous lives most of my grandfather's patients led. My grandmother referred to my grandfather's practice as a society one, consisting of holding the hands of hypochondriac old ladies. She meant it disparagingly, but I saw nothing wrong with making a good living for our family by providing comfort to little old ladies.

So I had met death head on at an early age, and it hadn't struck me as a big deal. It was part of the cycle of life, nothing more. My grandparents, as well as my great-uncle and aunt, had already made full end-of-life arrangements. They had their plots picked out, headstones chosen, and a file for final arrangements in their desk drawers, along with folders for taxes, wills, and stock certificates.

When they died, someone would come to wash their bodies if they were in a hospital, then someone else would take them to their pre-arranged funeral home of choice. Pascal was one of the workers involved in that process. What was the big deal?

As long as he washed his hands. Had I seen him washing his hands the day before? Yes, multiple times. Not only was he a good cook and a superb lover, but his flat had been tidy and clean. When I pushed him into the shower, he hadn't protested overmuch.

A part of me found the whole thing funny. It would be very funny indeed, if a girlfriend had related to me the news that her most phenomenal lover of all times had a job washing dead bodies, among other functions. What was so terrible about it? What if Pascal had a job washing newborns, was an average lover, and lacked the skill to bring me to climax? What then? Which version of Pascal would I choose?

I'd choose the Pascal who washed les morts in a heartbeat. Still, I made a tiny mental note to make sure I saw him wash his hands with soap that evening, before he went anywhere near any hidden part of me.

By half past ten, I was back in my room. I changed into fresh clothes, putting on a floaty, lilac summer top that was just the teensiest bit sheer. It would drive Pascal crazy. I was now a full-fledged woman, whose sex appeal had a destination in mind. The whole point of having sex appeal wasn't really about making men happy. It was about making myself happy. Who knew?

For the past six years, I'd thought sex was about men having a mind-blowing experience, and women enjoying a pleasant time with some messiness at the end. But the image of the woman in the underpass along the Seine had lingered in my brain. Her unearthly cry teased me, hinting at a secret I wasn't privy to, inviting me to share it with her when the time came.