Tuesday In Paris

Part 1

Daniel arrived twenty minutes early, which felt both strategic and faintly ridiculous. The small bar at the Hôtel des Grands Boulevards was all burnished brass and globe lamps, the clink of crystal, the buzz of conversations too low to overhear. He chose a stool with a view of the entrance and ordered a neat scotch and a glass of Sancerre -- not knowing which she preferred, only that either might feel right.

Three nights ago, he'd sent her a message:

- So, I'll be in Paris on Tuesday. Hôtel des Grands Boulevards. 19:30. Bar.

No pressure. Not even an invitation. A simple statement.

Delphine hadn't responded. So when she appeared at the doorway at 7:40 PM, part of him thought he'd conjured her.

She paused and scanned the room before taking another step -- scarf knotted neatly at her throat, a camel coat belted at the waist. Her auburn hair, more copper than flame, peeked out in soft waves from beneath the wrap. Not tall -- the five-ten height listed on her agency's website was a tad optimistic -- but carrying herself with ease. Like the professional that she was. No makeup that he could see.

When she saw him, a small, knowing smile crossed her face. Enough to cause a faint but unmistakable dimple to appear on her cheek.

"Daniel Mercer, in the flesh." she said, after crossing the room to stand beside him.

"I can't believe you actually did it."

"I said I would."

"I didn't say I'd meet you."

"You didn't say you wouldn't."

Her mouth curved. "Fair." Then, looking at the drinks, "Those both for you?"

"I wasn't sure what you liked. Just trying to cover my bases without ordering a dozen drinks."

She slid onto the stool beside him and took the wine.

After a sip, she said "It's good. But I would've ordered red."

"I'll remember that...for next time."

She raised an eyebrow ever so slightly. and took another sip, then looked over the rim of the glass. "I really didn't think you'd do it."

"Most people didn't."

"You told people?"

"Only the two who would try to talk me out of it."

She smiled. "And did they?"

"Absolutely. Called me reckless. Said I was setting myself up to be ghosted."

"Maybe you were."

"I know," he said. "But...I had a feeling."

She watched him for a long moment, her expression softening.

"Well, you certainly surprised me," she said...adding softly, "No one's ever done something like this for me."

"I find that hard to believe."

"It's true. I mean, I've had men offer to fly me places. Some actually did. But no one's ever... come to me. At least, not without asking for or expecting something."

"I just wanted to meet the fin-de-siecle supermodel who let me slide into her DMs."

She sighed. "That damn post from Corsica, right?"

He nodded. "Still one of the most honest Instagram photos I've ever seen. That was a pretty nasty cut."

"It was a pretty nasty fall. I was getting out of the water at this place where I go swimming...at least 50 times a year. My foot slipped on the stairs. I've done dozens of fashion shows, often in heels, and NEVER once fallen."

"Do you remember the exact line I wrote?" he asked.

She closed her eyes, as if needing a second to check her memory, and recounted, "Well, there goes your modeling career." Her voice rose at the end, turning her statement into a question.

"Nailed it."

She laughed. "I nearly deleted that, you know."

"But you didn't. And I thought: anyone who can make a joke when they're bleeding is worth getting to know."

"My agents didn't think it was very funny at the time. But they seem to have gotten over it. After all, I still keep earning them money."

They talked for more than two hours -- about their favorite (and least favorite) cities, about getting older, about past relationships, about how she was discovered by a scout on a trip to the closest mall. She still did one or two major campaigns a year. Enough to stay visible, but not enough to be as ubiquitous as she had sometimes been at her peak. She asked about his work as a commercial interior architect.

Over their second set of empty glasses, she said "Well, you certainly don't seem like someone who DMs models."

"You don't seem like someone who replies."

"And...so, here we are."

There was a pause between them, but not an awkward one.

Coming to a decision, she said, "I live five blocks away. You don't have to walk me home. But I'd like it if you did."

Daniel reached for his coat and carry-on. "Lead the way, Mademoiselle Belmond."

Part 2

Her building was a pale limestone rectangle with rusted balcony rails and a narrow wooden door that appeared to have survived more than one war. The kind of place that didn't look impressive until you were inside -- where the moldings were ornate, and the small elevator in the middle of the stairwell had a folding metal gate that clanked when you pulled it shut.

They didn't talk much on the ride up. Just stood close. Her shoulder brushed his. Neither moved.

Her apartment was warm, low-lit, and quiet in a way that didn't feel overly designed or staged. Books in horizontal stacks. A velvet chair with one threadbare arm. A tall plant in the corner that looked like it hadn't been watered in a while.

Daniel's attention was immediately drawn to the stereo. It sat low and wide on a walnut console: black bookshelf speakers flanking a turntable and a small tube amp with brushed metal knobs. A collection of LPs in open shelves beneath. The kind of system built by someone who listened alone and for pleasure.

She caught him looking.

"That was the first thing I bought, you know." she said, crouching to thumb through the records. "After my first paid modeling job. Not shoes. Not a bag. This. I was seventeen."

"You bought a hi-fi system?"

She nodded. "My dad had a good system when I was a kid. And buying this made me feel grown up." She pulled out a sleeve and held it toward him. Getz/Gilberto. "Did I remember correctly that you once said João Gilberto was 'the sound of grace without effort'?"

"Sounds pretentious enough to be something I'd say."

She slipped the vinyl onto the platter and dropped the needle. The soft hush of surface noise, then the slow, humid drift of "Corcovado". It filled the space like steam.

She didn't look back at him.

Instead, she slipped out of her coat and laid it carefully over a chair. Then she unwound her scarf. Pulled her sweater over her head.

No drama. No coyness. No bra.

Just her. She turned to face him completely.

Her skin was pale and luminous, scattered with freckles across her shoulders and upper arms. Her breasts were well proportioned, natural, the skin smooth and unaltered. Her areolae were wide and softly pillowed. Her stomach was soft but held shape.

There were the beginnings of lines at the corners of her eyes, around her mouth. Not deep, but real. Daniel found her more enchanting this way than any retouched editorial image.

She stepped out of her trousers next.

Through her sheer panties. he could see the darkness of her pubic hair -- neat, nearly natural.

She lit a cigarette, exhaled, and looked at him.

"I've had lovers in the past who would disappear the second they saw something that didn't live up to my image in some magazine."

Daniel didn't speak. He couldn't.

She took another drag, then offered him the cigarette. He took it.

"When I started in the business, I used to be more self-conscious," she said. "But somewhere along the way, nudity stopped feeling vulnerable."

She looked at him more carefully. "It's not the naked part that makes me hesitate anymore. It's the closeness. That part's harder to share."

Daniel stepped toward her, slowly. Close enough to smell the skin behind her ear, to feel the warmth coming off her body.

"Are you sharing that with me?" he asked quietly.

She made a small gesture with her head that gave him the answer.

Then she handed him the cigarette again. "Your turn."

Part 3

He was not a model. But he looked fine in clothes. And good enough without.

He undressed slowly, as she asked. First his coat, then shirt. She watched without comment, but her eyes tracked everything -- the lines of his torso, the salt-and-pepper hair on his chest.

He left his boxers on and stepped forward to kiss her. First on the cheek, inhaling deeply, basking in her smell. Then on the lips, closed-mouthed at first. But when her lips parted, he mirrored her. Their tongues made small explorations of each other before probing more deeply. He could feel the softness of her breasts pushing into him. His hands caressed her sides and her back, one making its way down to the waistband of her underwear. He slipped just enough of his hand down to touch the tip of her cleft.

After a time, he knelt and turned her around, pulling her panties down to her ankles. She stepped out of the leg holes one foot at a time.

Taking his time, he placed his hands on her thighs, parting them gently, his breath warm against the inside of her leg. She was already wet. He could see it, smell it -- musky and feminine and clean.

He bent her over the arm of the couch slightly and licked her slowly. Broad, warm strokes that made her gasp. Then narrowed his focus, tongue pressing against her clit, steady and even.

She sighed. A sound low in her throat. One hand reaching in his hair, the other gripping the fabric of the couch she leaned on for support.

He didn't rush. Didn't speak. Just listened -- to the way her breath changed, the way her thighs trembled, the way she tilted her hips to guide his mouth and tongue.

Then, with a shift of his hands, he spread her more deliberately and dragged his tongue higher -- teasing the seam of her ass. She tensed at first, surprised. Then relaxed, hips softening.

He explored gently, reverently.

This part tasted faintly of salt and skin. Clean -- but also human, earthy, real. His tongue circled her rosebud slowly, then pushed in, just a little. She moaned, a sound surprised by how much she liked it.

"Yes," she breathed. "Comme ça."

Finally, he slid one finger inside her pussy -- slow, smooth -- while his tongue worked in tandem. She was soaked now, thighs shaking, her body trying not to let go too fast.

But she did.

Her orgasm was low and deep, a full-bodied quake that made her cry out and half-collapse. He stayed with her through it, licking gently, finger slowing.

She turned to face him and pulled him up by his shoulders.

"Come here," she whispered. "I want you."

"Hold that thought. I should get something. I'll be right back."

"Yes, of course."

Still in his boxers, Daniel walked to his bag and squatted down so he could access what he was looking for. He had put them into his dopp kit while packing back home in Croton Ferry. There was no guarantee he'd have a need, but better to be prepared.

He returned to her, the condom palmed in his left hand. She got up from the couch and took his right, leading the way down a hallway to her bedroom.

They fell onto her bed in a tangle. Her body still gleamed faintly with sweat.

Slipping off his boxers, she pulled him over her, kissed him -- tasting herself on his mouth -- and opened her legs. Daniel tore the foil packet and rolled the condom on in a practiced motion, his eyes never leaving Delphine. He studied her -- the softness of her breasts, the the auburn hair that curled naturally around her temples. Her labia were slightly parted from arousal, inner lips plush and dusky, her scent still clinging faintly to his mouth and fingers.

He entered her with a slow, deliberate thrust.

She groaned. So did he. He was thankful for the slightly reduced sensation afforded by the condom.

"Don't stop," she said.

After stroking in and out for a few minutes, he did. As much to delay the inevitable as to regard her beauty.

She took the opportunity to release herself, pull him down beside her, then straddled him.

Daniel lay back, hands at her thighs, watching as she guided him into her -- slow, unhurried, her face flickering with concentration and pleasure as he filled her. She rolled her hips, letting herself adjust, letting him delve into the deepest part of her.

She leaned forward, her breasts brushing his chest. He kissed one gently, then took a nipple between his lips. Her skin was warm and salty. He grazed the other with his fingers, pinching lightly -- enough to draw a breath from her lips, enough to make her press harder against him.

She rode him with purpose, but not aggression. Her hips moved in a rhythm all her own -- confident, practiced, but not detached. She stayed connected, her eyes locked on his, her hands framing his face. Daniel could feel himself getting close again, but he didn't want to rush.

"You feel so good inside me," she whispered.

He nodded and she kissed him -- hard now, with tongue and teeth -- as her own pleasure began to rise again. He reached up and held her hips, guiding her rhythm. She moaned, almost growled, and then...

She gasped.

Her whole body jerked once, then again, and then it happened: a sudden release, not just a clenching but a wave -- liquid, warm, spilling out of her and onto their shared skin. Her face flushed crimson.

"Oh--"

He froze, stunned at first. Then wrapped his arms around her as she trembled through it.

"I didn't know if I ever would," she whispered into his neck. "I've... come close before. But this... never. Not with someone."

Daniel kissed her temple.

"I'm honored."

Her fingers traced his jaw. "That's what it felt like. Not just sex. Something given."

He was still hard inside her. She clenched gently, and he groaned.

"You haven't finished," she said, pulling back enough to look at him. Her expression was soft. Curious. Still glowing.

"I can," he said. "Just don't move."

She moved.

He held her hips tight, gave in, and let himself go -- eyes locked with hers, his breath catching in her open mouth.

Part 4

In the living room, the record had long since reached its end. The stylus ticked gently in the runout groove, over and over -- like a heartbeat neither of them bothered to stop.

They slept.

Delphine lay with her back to Daniel, his arm draped over her waist, their legs woven loosely under the linen sheets. At one point in the night, she reached back for his hand, pulled it against her chest, and left it there.

He woke first.

Not to an alarm, but to the slow realization of warmth. Her warmth. Her scent. Her presence.

He didn't move.

Then she stirred -- the tiniest stretch, her arm rising above her head, her foot curling against his shin.

"I thought I'd feel stranger," she murmured.

"You don't?"

"No. I feel...lighter."

He kissed the top of her shoulder. "That's something."

She rolled over, slowly. Her hair was a bit tangled now, her eyes soft with sleep. He thought she looked even more beautiful like this -- her face fully hers, her body without pretense. Forty-something. Glorious.

She catches him smiling to himself.

"Quoi?" she asks, amused.

He shrugged. "There's this line from a novel I read once... 'I am like a saxophone player in a marching band, in love with a movie queen.'"

"Hmm." Then, after a beat: "Well... at least you're in the band."

They both laughed.

Then she asked, "How long are you in Paris for?"

He hesitated.

"Technically, I fly home tonight."

"Technically?"

"I can pretty much do 90% of my work from anywhere."

She raised one eyebrow. "What does that mean?"

He smiled. "It means I could get to like it here."

She kissed his jaw. "I already do."

In the kitchen, he found eggs, real butter, a small nonstick skillet, and sea salt in a ceramic dish. He moved quietly, methodically, the way someone does when they are good at something, even something small.

She sat at the little café table by the window, legs bare, his button-down shirt on, cigarette in hand.

"You weren't kidding," she said after the first bite.

He shrugged. "Like I told you, I only know how to make a dozen things. But I do them all well. And properly done, scrambled eggs can be their own kind of revelation."

She smiled. "I don't know if that's either a very French or a very American thing to say."

He poured her the last of the coffee.

She drank it.

Part 5

They left the apartment without really discussing it. Just a shared impulse. No big gestures. Just clothes, shoes, a look in the mirror, then keys, and the door pulled quietly shut behind them.

The morning was soft with mist. The city smelled like warm bread and cold stone.

Delphine led, Daniel followed. He liked watching the way she moved -- not in heels, not on a runway, but flats, in a city she knew, belonged to.

They wound through crooked alleys and down a quiet side street until they reached a narrow storefront with no sign. The windows were steamed. The glass was old -- bubbled, imperfect.

Inside, the café was small. Locals, not tourists. Everyone seemed to know each other -- and the counterman definitely knew her.

"Bonjour, Delphine," he said.

"Salut, Jean," she said. "Deux cafés noirs, s'il te plaît."

The counterman glanced at Daniel. Not skeptical -- just curious.

Delphine didn't hesitate. She touched Daniel's arm and said, "C'est un ami."

A friend.

But the way she said it -- the quiet assurance of it -- made the word feel heavier..

They took their coffees to a small marble table near the fogged window. Said little. Sipped slowly.

Delphine stirred sugar into her cup, her nails tapping the spoon once against the rim. Her eyes drifted outside -- not away from him, but toward something internal. Familiar streets. A dog tied to a bicycle. A girl with a violin case.

Daniel watched her.

And then, with no flourish, no announcement, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his phone.

Opened the correct app.

Flight to Newark -- 6:45 PM.

She didn't notice. She was still watching the street.

He pressed Change/Cancel Reservation.

The confirmation pinged.

He slid the phone back into his pocket, and took another sip of coffee.

She turned toward him.

"What was that?" she asked.

He shook his head, smiling faintly.

"Nothing."

And meant everything.