The Eiffel Tower

Someone asked me the other day if I had come to my senses about Brad. If I had faced the fact that he wasn’t dead and that Julie couldn’t be a murderer. I feel I have to tell you the truth to get you to understand my side of the story.

I lied when I said I didn’t know who Brad was.

I met Brad a long time ago. In Paris. Paris, France, not Paris, Illinois. I was on one of those whirl wind if-this-is-Tuesday-this-must-be-Paris tours that are popular with the unadventurous. I grew tired of seeing the museums and tourists spots with the old fogies on my tour bus. Nice enough people, but most of the group were Medicare age and the few younger people were shy and reserved, all incapable of stimulating conversation. Like me, I suppose.

During a rare free hour one afternoon, I abandoned the group and went on a window-shopping spree. I sniffed heady perfumes and glorious chocolates, I tried on French designs that I couldn’t possibly afford, and I gawked at Parisians like the tourist that I was. Just like in the movies, I stopped at a sidewalk café along the River Seine. I tried to order tea and pastries from an impossibly impatient French waiter, but my command of the French language was limited to “Bonjour”. Frustrated to the point of crying in lieu of socking him in the eye, I was just about to give up when Brad came to my rescue.

“Ah, a fellow American,” he said in a fake French accent, bowing to me deeply. “May I be of service, mademoiselle?”

Blinking back the tears, I laughed at the silly theatrics and begged, “Please!”

“May I join you?” he asked, than hastily assured me, “I’ll order for you either way. I don’t mean to be presumptuous, but it would be nice to talk to someone in English again.”

Maybe it was Paris, maybe it was just him, but I threw caution to the wind, and pointing to the chair nearest me, again replied, "Please!"

We talked and laughed for hours. He made me feel beautiful. I became witty and flirtatious. I forgot about the tour and its strict adherence to timelines.

Finally, the waiter interrupted us and whispered something to Brad. I couldn’t understand it, but, from the tone and his sideways glance at me, I gathered it was rude, and possibly crude. Brad explained, “He wants us to leave. We are monopolizing the table and infringing on his profit margin.”

Suddenly aware of the time, I peered at my watch, “Oh, shoot. I’ve missed the trip to the Eiffel Tower. The tour left an hour ago and I really wanted to see the Tower.” Then, I smiled at him, with my eyes open wide, took a deep breath, and brazenly said, “But it was worth it. I wouldn’t have missed you for the world.”

Brad assumed his French accent again and to my delight replied, “But, mademoiselle, you must not miss ze Eiffel Tower. Please, allow me to show it to you in ze moon light.”

Of course, I said yes. What the hell, you’re only young once.

"There she is," Brad exclaimed with one arm around my shoulders, needlessly pointing at the grand tower in front of us.

"It's beautiful!" I whispered softly. "It looks just like it did in every movie of Paris I've ever seen. Why do I feel like dancing?"

Brad looked down at me and gave my shoulders a little hug, "You are so funny."

I didn't have time to decide if he was being sincere or condescending. The arm around my shoulder became two arms around my waist and he kissed me. Softly at first and when I didn't resist, more boldly, more demanding. I was losing myself in that embrace when I felt his tongue exploring mine. "I’m French kissing in Paris!" I said blissfully to myself. "Moonlight, the Eiffel Tower, a handsome guy, and French kissing."

That's when I got the giggles.

To be continued.

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