cinq // amelia
♡
All that's left in my mug is some undissolved sugar granules and a small puddle of cold tea. But despite the fact that I finished my beverage ages ago, the warmth it spread through me is yet to fade away. Maybe that feeling isn't because of the tea, but because of the boy sitting opposite me. His hair is a flaxen mess of wild waves threaded with gold, and his eyes are filled with unsmiling thunderclouds. Throughout our conversation, he's only smiled twice. I've kept track, because each time his lips parted to reveal teeth that weren't quite aligned and a left dimple, it felt as if there was a sunrise blooming in my heart.
There is something about that smile that seems to unravel every rule I live by. Back in England, I would never have sat down on the same table as a stranger. Back home, I would never have struck up a conversation with a stranger. Back then, I definitely wouldn't have shared personal details with a stranger.
I am accustomed to following the plans I usually script for myself, but that doesn't mean I can't make exceptions. Like, when I have the chance to talk to cute boy rather than sit on my own in a foreign café, it's inevitable that I will choose the former, even if it doesn't follow my plan.
Plus, my new life here in Paris is completely unscripted. For once in my life, I don't have lines to follow, and there's something extremely liberating about not being tied down to any plans. I feel disorganised, reckless, out of control...yet freer than I've felt in years.
I glance at Marius, and catch his stormy gaze lingering on me – like rainclouds clinging to the sky after a hurricane. I offer him a small smile, a daring invitation for him to do the same, and the risk pays off. He returns the gesture, giving me his third smile of the afternoon.
Marius taps his fingers against his empty mug, and for the first time since I gate-crashed his table, I notice a crumbled receipt resting on the table beside his toned forearm. The receipt is not what catches my attention, but the address scribbled onto the paper in smudging black ink.
19 Avenue la Bougeotte, 94160 Saint-Mandé, France
"That's my new apartment building!" the words spill out of my mouth before I realise that I just disclosed my address to a stranger. I smack my hands over my mouth, as if it will bring the words back.
A hopeful look fills Marius's eyes, like clouds evacuating the sky after a storm. "It is?"
"Um..."
"You couldn't show me the way, could you? I'm supposed to be meeting...a friend there."
Old habits die hard. A familiar drifting sensation washes over me, the same feeling I get every time I feel myself straying away from my plans. Usually, I'm organised and careful and cautious. That part of me is now being gripped by an icy panic, as I realise that I've just tangled myself with a stranger and revealed way too much. I just told a stranger where I live. What if he's secretly part of a gang or something – one who aims to vandalise our apartment, abduct me and inflict me with their torture? My typical organisation and carefulness spins out of my grasp, out of control, and I'm drowned by a helpless feeling of vulnerability.
I squint at Marius, as if seeing him for the first time. The light dusting of stubble that coats his chin indicates that he could be at least a year or two older than me, and the suitcase resting beside his chair – the one I mistook for my own on the train earlier today – is battered and worn, as if it carries more than just possessions, but secrets and memories and stories too.
Suddenly, I feel myself withdrawing. I sink back in my chair, trying to put some distance between me and this mysterious stranger. My hand tightens around the strap of my handbag.
"Look, Marius..." I begin to explain, but I'm not sure what I'm trying to say.
"You don't have to if it will inconvenience you. I can find my own way," he says, face turning colder than a snowstorm. "But, I've never been to this part of town before. And since you know where my destination is, I just thought..."
"Fine. I'll show you," I say quickly, politeness overruling my fear of strangers, of danger, of taking risks. He's showed me nothing but kindness during our brief encounters, and I can't repay him with cynicalness.
"On y va?" he raises his eyebrows at me.
Fear clambers up my throat, making my mouth feel too heavy to speak. I gather my bags and he does the same, shrugging an oversized backpack over one shoulder and grabbing the handle of his battered suitcase. He looks at me expectedly, his eyes like a storm brewing, and I shoot a glance at the empty mug on my table, wishing I could drown myself in the dregs of cold tea which remain.
"Allons-y," I mumble, shuffling away from the table and towards the door.
The dappled light of the June evening bathes me in a warm balm, and I inhale the scent of Paris. Air tinted with smoke, the lingering undertones of sugary pastry from a nearby patisserie, the summer breeze's fresh redolence mingling with vehicle fumes. It hasn't even been a whole day, but already the aroma of home seems to be fading from my nostrils. What does London smell like?
There's maze of avenues lined with quaint bistros and boutiques and cafés, none of which look familiar. I look around, searching for clues of my location, hoping they'll be written on the signposts or painted on the road. But I can't seem to make a link between the café I've been sat in for the past hour, and the apartment I've visited once in my life that is supposed to be my new home.
"Do you know how to get there?" Marius asks tentatively.
Despite the warmth in the summer breeze, I shiver slightly. "Um..."
"It's okay. I guess I know this city well enough to figure out-"
"No. I've got this," I say, slightly too forcefully. I've been making plans my whole life; paying attention to detail is an unyielding habit. I mustn't let the fact that I'm in a foreign country derail me. "This way."
I lead him down a narrow avenue, past a store selling oversized watermelons and a pet shop with puppy harnesses displayed in the window. Marius walks a little behind me, despite the fact that his loping stride covers way more ground than my tentative steps. Now that we're standing, I can see his full height; he must be at least 6 foot, tall enough that he could reach up and touch the heavens which he might as well have fallen from. Usually, I'm fond of my petite 5'3 stature – Ben used to call me his 'teaspoon' because I was always the small spoon when he'd envelope me in his reassuring embrace. But today, my height makes me feel vulnerable. Marius towers above me, his eyes never leaving the back of my head.
As we walk, I decide that no harm can come of showing him to the apartment. My parents will be home, so it's not like he can attempt to force himself into our flat. And even if he does try something – if this is one of those rare horror stories that you hear about all the time and never expect to actually happen to you – then the police are only a phone call away.
With a shudder, I realise that 999 probably doesn't work in this country. What is the emergency number here? I can hardly ask Marius right now. The shudder spreads, crawling down my spine with icy panic and fear and uncertainty. Yet again, I'm reminded how displaced I feel in this foreign city – how alone I feel surrounded by millions of strangers. I wish the cracks in the pavement would just swallow me up.
The avenue weaves onto a main road, and this time I recognise the shops which line the pavement. The sense of vague familiarity spurs me on, and I slip nimbly through the crowds of people milling about on the sidewalk, not bothering to check if Marius is still following. If I can lose him in the process, it will shake off some of my fear about taking a stranger to my home. Although, he will still have my address.
The muscles in my neck don't seem to be collaborating with my brain, because I can't help but spin my head over my shoulder to steal a glance at Marius. He's still following – the evening breeze threading its way through the sand dunes in his hair in a way that makes me want to run my own fingers through it. His grey eyes are clouded over with another storm, and he wheels the suitcase behind him determinedly.
A hazy memory and a hint of guesswork guides me down a few more avenues until I locate the apartment building with a sigh of relief. I stop outside, figuring that if I let him go in first he doesn't have to know the exact number of my flat.
"Bienvenue," I say.
"I thought you were lost for a moment," he replies, the corner of his mouth flicking up in a half-smirk which doesn't reach his eyes.
"Well, we made it."
"Thanks, Amelia."
My gaze flitters down to the ground, staring at the slightly scuffed toes of my trainers – baby pink leather falling against the charcoal backdrop of the pavement slabs. Marius's trainers are even more worn than mine, faded black material and withering laces. He's standing directly opposite me, and even with a metre between us I can feel the electricity from the lightning which flashes through the storms in his eyes.
"Well, I guess I'll see you around?" unintentionally, it escapes as more of a question than a casual phrase. Despite my lingering cautiousness of the fact that he's still a stranger, he's the most familiar thing in this whole city right now – besides my family. I feel a need to hold on to him, like a life raft in a storm, because one tiny streak of familiarity makes tackling the unknown feel so much less intimidating. I consider asking him to show me around Paris, he's mentioned that he's been here before, but I can't quite find the words. He's still a stranger, I remind myself – wishing that it wasn't true. Stick to the plan, I tell myself – knowing there isn't one this time.
"Possibly," his tone is opaque.
"Are you...will you be staying in Paris for long?" I say, fumbling over my words.
"Possibly," he says again, his voice still unreadable.
I look up at him, my eyes find his. For a moment, I get washed away by the storms in his eyes; like when you get caught in the middle of a downpour and can't see through the mist and cloud and rain to find shelter.
"Okay," I say, daring to offer him a hint of a smile. To my surprise, he returns the gesture, before buzzing the security keypad to let himself into the building. He requests a name into the speaker before the doors click open and he holds them open for me.
Maybe I don't have a path to follow this time. Maybe I'm lodged somewhere between plans and spontaneity, with no clear direction. But maybe it's time I attempted to craft my own path.