4 p.m.
"After you sir," said Mira, holding open the big glass door for Jake. She followed him inside, and they now both stood in Paris's grandest and most famous department store, Galeries Lafayette.
The main floor was a shopaholic's dream, with a huge array of designer accessories for every wealthy woman's taste. Jake took a few confused steps in either direction. "Did you just take me to the most expensive store in Paris?" he said.
Mira laughed and shook her head. "No, no, this is just the showcase stuff, to entice all the rich tourists." She wasn't wrong, as the floor was buzzing with activity, most of which was from the "women salivating over leather satchels" contingent. "Follow me," she said, leading Jake into the inner maze of jewellery and cosmetics counters.
"Yeah...so...I'm not buying you any jewellery," he said, regarding the display cases with scorn.
"You don't have to buy me anything," she said. "But I do want to show you something special."
He was suddenly curious so he followed along. In seconds she turned and stopped, but nothing special had appeared.
"I don't get it," he said.
"Look up." When he did nothing she pointed at the ceiling. "Come on!"
He gazed upwards, and there to greet him was a golden, intricately carved, five-level atrium ceiling.
"You're currently staring at the most beautiful department store ceiling in the world," she said.
He shrugged. "I mean it's cool and all, but it's not really my thing."
Mira wasn't the least bit insulted. "Will you please just keep looking? There's a hidden message in the ceiling, and I'm curious to see if you can figure it out."
In reality, there was no hidden message at all, but Mira guessed that "Jake the fierce lacrosse superstar" would accept this competitive challenge. And he did. As Jake squinted his eyes in an effort to decode the non-existent message, Mira scooted over to the Dior cosmetics counter. Within seconds, the French cosmetics lady sprayed Mira with Miss Dior; it was the light, flirty, young woman's scent, or at least that's what Mira had learned from all the ad campaigns. Mira sniffed her wrist, and feeling satisfied, asked to see the actual bottle.
"Aimerez-vous acheter ce parfum?" the lady asked. No, Mira did not have any plans to buy the perfume, but here was the fancy (and free) solution to her lack of deodorant access. She remembered reading about French royalty in the eighteenth century, and how, in the absence of showers and deodorant, they would douse themselves in perfume to mask their obscenely horrid body odour. Mira smelled just fine for now, but how would things be ten hours from now? Like in the middle of the night, when Jake and Mira would be doing god knows what on a public bench? Based on their almost kiss, she needed to plan for the best-case scenario.
"Alors..." the lady said, impatiently waiting for an answer.
"Oh my god!" Mira cried, pointing behind the lady. The distraction worked, and as the cosmetics lady turned around to see what all the fuss was about, Mira sprayed Miss Dior on her neck and under both her arms. Satisfied that two sprays on each side would mask whatever future sweaty offenses were to arise, she put the bottle on the counter and hurried back over to Jake. Stubborn guy that he was, he was still staring up at the ceiling, his eyes as squinty as ever. She followed his gaze towards the ceiling. "Made any progress yet?"
"If there's a message I would've noticed it, you know? Like nowhere is there a sentence on that ceiling."
"Ohhh," Mira said. "I forgot to tell you it's a bunch of letters distributed throughout the ceiling; first you have to find them all, and then you have to unscramble the message."
"What?!" He looked down at her, an exasperated look on his face.
"You know what?" Mira said, shaking her head. "Even with both our brains we'll never figure this out. So let's just go find you some pants!" She dragged him to the nearest escalator, trying her best not to laugh...
***
With the "rich women on crack" now well out of range, all was quiet here, in the impeccably laid out men's department. Rich mahogany walls and warm yellow lighting showcased the goods on display, from sweaters, to golf shirts, to trousers, and everything in between. Jake rummaged through a rack of expertly hung jeans in every colour.
Mira grabbed a pair in a rich yellow. "I think mustard would be a good look for you."
He took the jeans out of her hands and put them back, shaking his head. "This is crazy," he said. "The average price of jeans here is two hundred euros. That's almost---"
"Three hundred dollars," she said. "I know. But see...you didn't want to wait to go to H&M."
"Yeah yeah..." He grabbed a few pairs of blue jeans and nodded. "These could work."
"Great!" she exclaimed. "Let's go try them on!"
He gave her a weird look. "You can wait out here."
Mira rolled her eyes. "Relax, I'm not going in the room with you, but there's a whole outer area where you can model them for me. And you will."
"No I won't," he said stubbornly. "And you're waiting out here."
"No I'm not," she countered; it was a full on stand-off.
He sighed. "Then I will ask to have you removed from the outer area."
"Okay," she said, never losing her casual air. "But you can't speak French. And even though they can speak English, they'll pretend they don't just to mess with you. And the next thing you know they'll be sizing your in-seam a.k.a. your crotch, and charging you extra to tailor your jeans. But if you're cool with all that...then yeah I'll wait out here."
He gave her a look that was entirely suspicious. "I feel like you're making some or all of this up." Like a true poker player, she said nothing. "Alright dammit!" He made a beeline to the change rooms. "Come on!"
Mira scurried after him, eager for him to model some clothes for her pleasure...
***
The "outer area" was decked out with gilded mirrors, a chandelier, and a leather couch for the comfort of judging girlfriends (or wives, or gay boyfriends). This was how all men's changing rooms were meant to be built. Mira, quite comfortable on the couch herself, casually flipped through a French lifestyle magazine. A few feet away, a slick-haired, metrosexual salesman stood ready with a fresh stack of jeans for Jake to try.
"Are you still there?" he said, from behind the curtain of his change room.
"Yep," Mira replied as she flipped another page. "You're taking forever by the way."
"There's something not right about these jeans," he said, a touch of anxiety in his voice.
"No one's gonna know what you mean 'til you come out here and show us," she said, her patience wearing thin.
With a mixture of a sigh and a groan, Jake pushed the curtain back and took two steps forward; just two.
The magazine slid off of Mira's lap as she sat there ogling Jake. All she could utter was: "That's...interesting." The interesting thing was that Jake was wearing ultra skinny jeans, the "ultra skinny" aspect most apparent in the thigh and crotch region. As well as the area of the butt, as she realized when he reluctantly turned around.
"I don't understand, the waist is my exact size." He looked into the mirror, baffled.
"Yeah..." Mira's eyes never left Jake's lower half. "I don't know...just try on a different pair."
"I tried on three and they were all like that!"
Mira finally peeled her eyes off of Jake and looked to the salesman for help. The salesman simply shrugged. "C'est la mode," he said.
"What'd he say?!" Jake said, pointing at the salesman accusingly.
"He said...it's the style." Mira got up and stood beside Jake in the mirror. "Your jeans are tighter than mine."
"Shut up!" Jake was very quickly turning red.
"Sorry but there's not a lot you can do. It's either this or garlic leg, which by the way I can smell from out here." She pinched her nose.
Jake sighed in resignation. "I guess I'll just parade around all day in painted-on jeans." He went back into the change room and slammed the curtain shut, which didn't turn out to be as dramatic as he'd intended, given that it was...a curtain.
"You sure don't mind when women wear painted-on clothes!" she called out. The more she thought about it, the more she knew she was right. Jake just loved ogling girls in their skin-tight club wear, but the second the tables were turned (and not even turned that hard, given that denim was thick), suddenly he was feeling objectified and desperately in need of help. If nothing else happened today, at least it would be a good day for feminism, she decided, because if equality meant anything, it meant treating men like pieces of meat as equally as they did it to women.
"If it makes you feel any better you have a great body!" she said, listening for his reaction. The upside of objectifying others was stroking their egos, so at least she could give him that.
She heard rustling in the change room, but no official response.
"Hello?" she said.
"Are you just saying that?" he finally said.
"What, the thing about your body?" She gave a sly smile that she knew he couldn't see.
"Yeah..."
"No, no I wasn't. You're built like a Greek god." She rolled her eyes, but the smile never left her face. "Now will you please hurry up? I have a surprise that will totally make up for this harrowing experience." This particular surprise would be the best one yet; something that she knew would cheer him up...
***
A short while later, Mira and Jake sat at a table on a terrace. Far from your regular terrace, this one was seven stories off the ground, serving as the café rooftop for Galeries Lafayette. With a three-hundred-and-sixty degree view of Paris including the majestic Eiffel Tower, this was one of the most romantic daytime spots in Paris. The romance reputation seriously clashed with how Mira was currently scowling at Jake.
"You were supposed to keep them in for twelve hours," she said. "It's been six." Mira was referring to the "tissue plugs" that Jake had now removed from his nostrils, leaving a few specks of crusty brown residue as the only visible evidence that he'd been punched that day.
"I know my own nose, okay?" He said, taking a sip of his café crème. "It's healed. Besides it looked ridiculous."
"So what? It's not like you have to look in the mirror. I'm the one that has to look at you all day." She smiled. "And I really don't care."
"If I'm gonna wear ultra skinny jeans, I'm not also gonna have things that look like tampons up my nose."
Mira burst into laughter. "I guess that's fair," she said.
Jake gazed around at the incredible view. "Pretty nice, huh?"
Mira nodded as she sipped her coffee. "Yep..."
"So what's the weather gonna be like for the rest of the day?" he said, a nervous air in his voice.
"Uhh...sunny I think. But I have my umbrella just in case."
"Cool..." he said, his voice dissolving into the breezy air. "So...what do you like to do for fun?" He appeared to still be talking to Mira, but he never quite looked her in the eye.
"Excuse me?" she said, wondering if those skin-tight jeans of his had seeped into his body and turned him into a weirdo.
"You know...like hobbies and stuff."
"You mean like going to the movies and long walks on the beach at sunset?" She snorted. "You sound like you're asking me online dating questions." Now he was definitely avoiding her eyes. "Wait..." she said. "Is this...a date?" Her sudden cool demeanour transformed into beads of sweat. She secretly applauded her foresight to douse herself in Miss Dior.
"I'm just making conversation," he said, scratching his head like a monkey, as he was known to do.
"Right..." Mira found it hard to mask her disappointment.
But what if..." he started, and suddenly her ears perked up. "What if it was a date?"
She tried to ignore her obnoxious pounding heart. "Well...I mean...I'd barf from the standard date question you just asked me, but other than that...it might be nice."
"I've never had a girl say she'd barf from hearing me talk." He flashed his winning smile and she was relieved.
"Yeah sorry, sometimes I say dickhead things when I'm uncomfortable." She shrugged.
"It's better than a girl who says nothing," he said. "Believe me."
"I do not believe you," she said. "You live for that giggly shit."
"That was the old me. Pre-skinny jeans." She laughed again.
"So this date thing," she said. "Normally a date only lasts for like three or four hours, tops."
"Unless it's a sleepover." He wiggled his eyebrows like a perverted uncle.
"Eww. Anyway what I mean is...usually if a date's going badly you can bail, have one of your friend's rescue you, pretend your cat died, any number of things."
"Has anything about this day been normal?" It was the smartest thing he'd said since she'd met him.
"So an eighteen-hour first date then?" she said. "With no escape?"
He put out his hand for the second pact of the day. "An eighteen hour first date."