the bubble man

"I said," the young woman repeated, "where are you off to with that bucket?"

Her accent sounded American, so he'd expected a tourist, but the business suit told him otherwise. A timid smirk bloomed between his beard and his moustache.

"The Louvre."

Her eyebrows jumped into her forehead. "The Louvre?"

"Well, more accurately the Carrousel Arch but technically..." A slight shrug. "It's just across the street."

She laughed. "What are you doing there? Making sand castles?"

His impassive expression flowered with laughter. She smiled.

"Soap bubbles," he said. "You're welcome to come and see."

Nobody knows the bubble man, nobody cares about the bubble man.

Maybe some will drop money into the gym bag he left open at the edge of his circus ring. But tourists have places to be and attractions to see. They come and go, like the bubbles flying and bursting.

The dwindling sunlight made the whole thing increasingly unremarkable, anyway. Without light, there was no colour and without colour, his bubbles became boring.

The bubble man began to pack as the skies darkened. He gathered his rope and stuffed it into his bag, over the loose change the tourists had left for him. His bucket was almost empty. He'd pour the soap remnants into the nearest sewer. His feet had gone numb from the cold and every step hurt. But with the bubble magic gone, no one had eyes to see.

Except...

"You look like you could use a hot drink."

The bubble man looked up from his aching feet. It was the American woman from the metro, only her business suit hid under a heavy coat this time. She approached him.

"I definitely could."

"There's a café just across the street."

The bubble man looked behind him, at the lit-up glass pyramid of the Louvre.

"I think I know the one you mean, but..." He glanced down at himself and his stuff. "That's a bit fancy for me." He paused and she opened her mouth to speak, but he overtook her. "How about the McDonald's under the Louvre? Or maybe that's not fancy enough for you?"

She quirked an eyebrow at him, smiling. "McDonald's is great. Suddenly I'm craving a Big Mac. Do you need help with that?" She pointed to his bucket, but he quickly picked it up.

"It's fine, it's nearly empty, anyway."

"Suit yourself, bubble man."

They walked together towards the entrance to the underground mall.

"So what's your name?" she asked as they climbed down the steps. "I'm Emily, by the way."

They stopped on the landing and he awkwardly fumbled with his things to free a hand which could shake Emily's.

"Daan."

She repeated after him, dah-ahn.

"It's Dutch," he added, by way of explanation. "It's like Dan, except with two A's."

"Right. So Dutch Daan, what brings you to Paris?"

"Well, there was a woman..."

"Was?"

He nodded. "Why would I be making soap bubbles at the Louvre otherwise?"

Emily shrugged. "Dunno. For fun? The kids must be loving it."

A pleasant reminiscence showed on his face. "Yeah, they do. Not many of them around this time of year, though. Too cold."

"Right."

"What about you, American Emily? What brings you to Paris?"

"Well, there was a woman—"

"Really?"

She laughed. "No, just the job. My life is boring like that."

"Some days..." He gave a crooked grin. "Some days, I wish I could have that kind of boring back."

They both had Big Macs at McDonald's and hot chocolate for dessert. When it came time to pay and Daan reached for the pouch wrapped around his waist, Emily stopped him and insisted to pick up the bill for both.

"Please. Let me. I loved the bubbles."

"Were you watching?"

"Just a little. Towards the end."

They chatted endlessly about her boring job and the boring job he used to have. They were still talking as they went together to the metro station and only stopped when they had to part ways.

"Tell you what," Emily was saying as her stop was coming up, "what if I catch you same place tomorrow evening, bubble man? And then you can pay for the Big Macs if you want."

He smiled. "I'd like that."

The train screeched to a halt.

"Alright. See you tomorrow."

"Sure thing, take care."

Back in his old studio flat, Daan found a note had been slid under his door. A simple white page, folded in half. He dropped his things and read it. Then he let it fall on his desk and frantically began to pack.

He didn't have many things. He filled a bag and a suitcase and his wardrobe remained empty. A few essentials from the bathroom and that was it. Though as he closed the cabinet and faced the mirror, a finishing touch occurred to him.

The bubble man left his flat with next to no facial hair and a shaved off head. He slung the bag on his shoulder and trailed the suitcase behind him. The note sat forlorn on his cluttered desk, fluttering from the movement.

It read: stay away from the american.

Daan switched the lights off and slammed the front door shut. The note stilled in the darkness. Outside, cars drove past, battered by drizzle. Daan crossed the street and disappeared between the buildings, into the treacherous Montmartre maze.

The bubble man was gone as the basilica Sacré-Cœur struck the hour and the Eiffel Tower began to glitter in the distance.