French Kiss

Chapter 21

A man knows he’s in love when he’s totally happy just watching his girlfriend do even the simplest things-peeling an apple, combing her hair, fluffing up a bed pillow, laughing.

That is precisely how I’m feeling when I walk into the ridiculously tricked-out media room of Dalia’s apartment: the Apologue speakers, the Supernova One screen, the leather Eames chairs. A room that is insanely lavish and almost never used.

As I walk in I see Dalia standing on a stepladder. Her back is to me. She is frantically sorting through the small closet high above the wet bar. She neither sees nor hears me enter. I stand and watch her for a moment. I smile. Dalia is wearing jeans and a turquoise T-shirt. As she stretches, one or two inches of her lower back are exposed.

I walk toward her and kiss her gently on that enticing lower back.

She gives a quick little yell.

“Don’t be scared,” I say. “It’s only me.”

She steps off the ladder and we embrace fully. I know a great kiss cannot wash away a bad day, but it surely can make the night seem a little bit brighter.

“When did this closet become the junk closet?” she asks as she climbs back up the ladder and begins tossing things down to me.

A plastic bag of poker chips. These are followed by three Scrabble tiles (W, E, and the always important X ). A plastic box containing ivory chess pieces, but no chessboard in sight. And a true relic from the Victorian era: a Game Boy.

“This is for you,” she says as she pretends to hit me on the head with a wooden croquet mallet. I add the mallet to the ever-expanding pile of items next to me.

“And you’ll like this,” she says with a smile. Dalia leans down and hands me a small gold box. I open it. It contains two little bronze balls the size of small marbles. Never saw them before. I shrug.

“Give up?” she asks. “They’re those Chinese things they use for sex, for the vagina.”

“The vagina?” I say. “Yes. I think I’ve heard of it.” She laughs and punches me lightly on the arm. I decide not to ask where she got them-or how often she used them or with whom.

“Well,” she says. “At least we’ve solved one mystery. This closet is not a junk closet. It is obviously a game closet.”

“What exactly are you looking for, anyway?” I ask.

“This,” she says as she steps down off the ladder. She is holding a slim burgundy leather book. I recognize it immediately. It’s the yearbook for our class at Lycée Henri-IV.

She opens it and turns to the page that has her graduation picture. “I was thinking of getting bangs. The last time I had them was when I was a kid. I wanted to see if I was as goofy-looking as I remember.” She frowns. “Guess I was.”

I say exactly what is expected of a man in this situation. The only difference is that this man means it with all his heart.

“You were beautiful,” I say.

“You’re mad. Braids on the side and bangs in the front. I look like a goatherd.”

I reach toward her and touch her face.

“If so, then you are la plus belle goatherd since the beginning of time.” I lean in and kiss her. Then I speak. “How about we have something nice to drink?”

“How about a nice warm bath, with lavender perfume?” she says.

“A bath?” I say. “I don’t know. I don’t think I’m that thirsty.”

Dalia taps me playfully on my nose. Then she heads toward the bathroom.