0 comments/ 27163 views/ 1 favorites Paris Winter By: Cactus Jack I leaned back wearily in my chair and stretched my arms above my head, desperate to get some feeling back into my aching shoulders. My body felt as if it had run a Marathon, but my efforts on the screen did not match my fatigue. I found the mug of half-warm coffee on the desk and sipped at it, grimacing as the strong flavour hit my tastebuds. Snow worked trails down the frosty windowpane and I watched, making bets in my mind as to which one would hit the sill first. I was bored, and the day was still young. I turned my attentions back to the glowing screen of the laptop, and read through the few lines that I had typed. I read through them again, cursed loudly, and deleted them with a quick stab of my finger. It had been pure shit, and I knew that as soon as I had typed it. But for the last couple of days shit was all I had been able to write. My muse, that mystical force that is supposed to embody all writers, had disappeared faster than a bottle of Vodka at a party. The screen of the computer looked up at me hopefully, humming softly as it willed me to get something onto it. I closed the screen shut with a snap that echoed around the apartment, cursed again, and looked out of the window once more. The traffic moved slowly along my street, and from my vantage point on the third floor I could tell that there had been yet another accident in the distance. A truck had collided with something that I couldn't see, and had spilled it's load across the highway. In Typical Parisian fashion, the other drivers on the street hadn't bothered to utilise their intelligence or patience and find another route, on the contrary, most of them were sitting rigidly in their vehicles tooting their horns in a rhythm that almost became musical the longer you listened to it. Pedestrians trooped along in the slushy snow and blocked the sounds from their ears as easily as they blocked the chilled winter air from their bodies. Directly beneath me I could still make out the shouts of the bakery owner as he stood in the doorway of the shop and announced his wares to whoever would listen, and across the road two boys dressed in scruffy grey and blue school uniforms kicked a ball back and forth between the parked cars. Friday morning, not quite Eleven, and already my little district of Paris was in chaos. I'd come here three months ago not quite sure what I was going to find. What I got was a city that lived on adrenaline and caffine and drugs and never stopped moving. Paris was a twenty-four hour party teetering on a constant brink of disaster; a time-bomb of barely restrained emotion just waiting to explode, and I was stuck right in the middle of it. Life was very different to the small town I had left behind in England, the kind of place where the accident that I was now looking at would make front-page news. Here, it was forgotten instantly, erased from the memory as quickly as one had the time to blink. I'd swopped quiet suburbia for inner city turmoil and I now had a constant stream of restaurants, bars, shops, outrageous clubs and general insanity a stones throw away from me at all times. Christ, a fifty-eight year old hooker lived two floors below me and I was only a few blocks walk from the original Moulin Rouge. All in all, you could say that I liked it. The sound of creaking water pipes made me jump, and a moment later the radiator I was leaning on rattled heavily, the paint-peeled metal vibrating against my legs as hot water rushed into it. I sighed and let my gaze travel around the apartment for yet another time that morning. The place was a dump, but for this district of the city the rent was fairly cheap, and the building I was in most definitely had a certain kind of rustic charm and architectural decadence that I had been looking for when I moved here. There were three rooms. The first was a living area that had a microscopic kitchen pushed into one corner. It was in here that I had spent most of the spare cash that I had bought with me, getting an antique desk to work at, a decent couch and TV and some not quite threadbare rugs on the floor. In the bedroom I had nothing more than a huge cast iron bed and an oak chest that I stored my clothes in, with a metal rail to hang my shirts and suits from. The bathroom led off the bedroom and was tiled floor to ceiling with a heroic sized tub planted in the centre, and a toilet that was stuck in a corner almost as an afterthought. What attracted me to the whole apartment was the high ceilings and open space, Victorian plasterwork and huge windows that flooded the late afternoon sunlight across the floor like waves breaking on the shore. If I couldn't find the inspiration to finish my novel here, then I never would. However, finishing it had become a problem during the last few days. My mind had lost it's thoughts and everytime I'd looked at the laptop I'd seen nothing but a huge literary wall infront of me, and I had no way how to get over it. I'd taken long walks around the streets, watched the places and people around me, but still nothing had come. I'd read magazines, taken long baths, watched the mind-numbing game shows that were a staple part of midday French television, even rented videos and sat through a bemusing afternoon of Pulp Fiction and Star Wars dubbed into French, but no blinding flash of inspiration came to me. And believe me, if the menacing tones of Darth Vader dubbed into a rustic Gallic dialect fails to inspire, then you know you're in trouble. My stomach growled, reminding me that I'd had no breakfast, and I crossed to the kitchen and checked the fridge, but all I could find was a quarter of milk and a few tomatoes that looked as if they had seen better days. I didn't need much of a reason to leave my work and get outside into the cool air of the morning, and making a run for provisions was as good an excuse as any. I slammed the front door behind me and pulled on my leather jacket as I headed for the elevator. As I walked down my hallway I could hear my neighbours arguing behind the walls; the woman who lived there seemed to have two forms of expression, silence and rage. She was tall and almost painfully thin, and on the few occasions that I had seen her she was always wearing the shortest of skirts which exposed the kind of legs that could almost break in a strong wind. Her hair was always pulled back from her face in a severe knot, and she would smile at me with a spiteful looking mouth that was quite obviously at it's happiest shouting abuse at the small man who lived with her. I had only seen him once, and he had peeked at me from underneath a cap before lowering eyes and rushing past me. I swore loudly at the elevator, which was out-of-order once again, using one of the only French words that I was fluent in. The stairs were cold and hard, and as I hurried down them I could feel the cold air and street noise coming in through the open front door. As I stepped outside the bustle that I had heard three floors above was amplified tenfold, and a great wall of sound accosted me. The traffic jam was still in full swing, with Citroens and Renaults shuffling along nose to tail. A local paper boy was the only person seemingly benefiting from the chaos; he was going from driver to driver selling copies of L'Equipe, the best-selling sports paper. As he passed me I pressed fifty francs into his hand for a copy and tucked it inside my jacket. Dodging through the vehicles, I crossed to the other side of the street and headed for the nearest brasserie, and as soon as I opened the door I was overcome with the smell of good pastries and fresh bread. There was the usual collection of intellectuals cluttering up the tables, smoking and drinking the blackest of coffee while they absorbed the works of Jean-Paul Satre and tried to look as if they knew what they were doing. When I first arrived in Paris I spent a good few days watching this kind of crowd with a certain bemusement, until it occurred to me that they were only doing exactly the same as myself. The pastime of watching people is almost an art form in Paris, and it's very easy to get sucked up into it. I avoided that these days by staying out of the cafes and doing my observing from my third floor window. Sure, it was still a waste of time, but I didn't feel so guilty if other people couldn't see me. I ordered coffee and a couple of buttered baguettes to go, and threaded my way back out onto the street. The air was heavy with the smell of exhaust fumes and shouting, and I quickly made my way along the sidewalk until I reached the south-east entrance of The Garden of Light, which is a small but beautiful park bordering that bank of the River Seine. It's hard to get away from the extreme noise of the city, but luckily Paris does have a few parks dotted throughout the urban sprawl which provide some relief. At the weekend these areas are stuffed full to the point of bursting, as seemingly every Parisian swops his cramped house for an even more cramped space on the well-manicured lawns. You can't even pick up a football without hitting someone, let alone kicking it anywhere. Luckily, on this bleak Friday morning in January, with light flurries of snow in the air, the park was relatively quiet. There were a few people on bicycles, and I passed an old man walking a collection of four of the biggest Dobermans I had ever seen in my life. He was dressed in the stereotypical Frenchman style; Black beret and blue and white hooped shirt. I'd always thought that image was a myth, but I often saw men dressed that way, and everytime I did it always brought a smile to my face. The French loved tradition, something I was quickly learning. I walked quickly along the bricked pathways, through the gardens that would be sprouting life and colour as soon as spring arrived, and headed for the banks of the river. This area of the park offered great views over the flowing waters of the Seine, with some awe-inspiring architecture along the opposite bank, including the spectacular Notre Dame Cathedral. It was a place I often came to when I was trying to put some ideas together, and I hoped the combination of the scenery and coffee of almost mind-altering strength would do the trick for me this time. When I leant against the iron railings that separated the path from the river I felt the cold metal instantly on my arms, even through my heavy coat. I tore into rough chunks of the baguette and swilled the delicious dough down with equally delicious coffee. One of the best things about living in Paris was that food was treated with the highest of respect, even the most simple of items such as the bread I was now eating. In France, food is almost a religion and the top chefs are treated as Gods, with connoisseurs from all over the world coming to worship at their restaurants. It might be a crowded and insane city, but some things more than made up for it. As I gazed out across the Seine I became aware of someone pressed up against the rails about ten feet to my left. I turned my head and saw a woman dressed in a long black coat looking down into the water. Her hands, clad in expensive looking gloves, were on gripping onto the railings and her mane of long black hair fell forward around her face. From my vantage point it looked as though her shoulders were shaking, and I wondered if she might be crying. Almost as if she had read my mind she looked up and at me, and as her hair whipped away from her face in the breeze I saw two things. Firstly, my assumption was correct, there were indeed tears in her eyes. Secondly, those eyes were set in the middle of one of the most beautiful faces I had ever seen. Her skin was pale and as smooth as soap, with full cheekbones that were flushed with winter colour. She had a delicate nose and a mouth that was very slightly open, and even from my distance I could spot ice-white teeth. Lips the colour of rose petals dipped in blood. It had been a long time since anyone had taken my breath away. I realised that I was staring at her when her expression changed and she frowned at me. 'Pardon, Madame.', I said. I continued to mumbled in the native language but my incompetence stopped me. Her expression remained unchanged. 'You don't speak French,' she replied. 'Not as well as you speak English,' I said. 'You were looking at me?' I nodded. 'I thought you were upset. I didn't mean to stare.' I fixed her with my best smile. Her face softened, and she removed one of her gloves and started to wipe at her eyes with small fingers. I fished around in my pocket and found my handkerchief, which thankfully was clean, and crossed over to her. She took it with a small smile and dabbed a corner of the cloth delicately around her eyes. Now I was closer I could smell the merest hint of perfume, subtle and expensive, and I noticed where small flecks of snow had gathered in her hair. 'Thank you.' She handed the handkerchief back to me, there was a slight smudge of mascara against the white cotton. I folded it carefully and stuffed it back into my pocket. Are you all right?' I said. She nodded. 'Yes, I think so.' She pulled her glove back on, and sniffed, shook her head more firmly. 'Definitely. I've just had a very difficult morning, that is all.' 'Would you like to talk about it?' I said, leaning back against the railings. 'My dog was put to sleep this morning. His lungs were failing, and I had to have it done for his own good. He was in a lot of pain I think.' Her eyes left mine and searched out the river. 'I'm so sorry,' I said. 'Was he very old?' 'He was fourteen years. I think that is a good age for a dog, yes?' 'Absolutely. In human years that's almost a hundred years old.' 'He has been with me for a very long time, over half of my life. I seem very empty without him.' Her voice was deep yet delicate, a sound that was so typically Parisian and so very, very sexy. Just talking to her made me feel as if I was trapped in an old Truffaut movie, and I almost expected the colour of the park to fade and be replaced with black and white 'I came out here to think,' she said. I smiled. 'That's a coincidence, so did I.' 'You think better with coffee?' She replied, nodding her head down to where my hand was cradling the half-full beaker. 'I used to. Once upon a time caffeine used to get my brain working. Now nothing seems to do the trick.' The wind had picked up and I raised the collar of my jacket, pulled it in close to me. I shivered, and watched as tiny waves crested with peaks of white in the river. The snow had also begun to fall more steadily. 'Well, thank you for the handkerchief,' she said, holding out a gloved hand. I shook it gently. 'It was nice meeting you, but I really want to get in out of this weather.' 'So do I,' I replied, and gave her my best smile once again. 'Look, if you've nothing better to do, maybe I could buy you some breakfast?' She laughed softly. 'Breakfast? Do you know it's almost Eleven Thirty?' 'Okay, how about an early lunch then? I know a good place.' She paused for a moment and looked up at the white sky, cirrus clouds thundering into the horizon. The wind gave a mournful howl around us. 'You've got a deal,' she said, and linked her arm through mine. We made our way quickly from the Garden of Light, and by the time we got back to the main road the snow was falling heavily. Even though the weather was poor the sidewalks were still crowded, and we threaded our way through the crowds until we reached a small bar that I frequented called Marion. Inside was warm and welcoming, the walls of the bar painted deep colours and with booths towards the back. The place was maybe a quarter full, with most of the patrons sitting or leaning against the stainless steel bar that ran the length of one wall. There was a smell of good food cooking in the kitchen, and Neil Young was playing on the stereo. We moved to one of the booths and sat facing each other on the leather seats. I unzipped my jacket and she unbuttoned and removed her coat. Underneath she was wearing a cream sweater and a chain around her throat that was to simple looking to be anything but real gold. Just as I was about to speak a waitress came to the table. She was very young looking and seemed nervous when she asked if we would like anything to drink. Although my French is unspeakably poor I knew enough to get by in a bar, and I ordered a beer for myself my companion ordered the same. I noticed as the waitress took our order she kept glancing at her, and after we told her what we wanted she didn't leave. I spoke in English; 'Is something wrong, Mademoiselle?' The waitress lowered her eyes. 'No Monsieur, I was just hoping that I could ask Miss Ledoyen for her autograph?' She turned to the woman with a hopeful expression. 'Of course,' she said, and the waitress handed her a pen, with which she signed a small signature across the back of the order pad. The waitress looked at it for a moment with a wide grin, before trotting merrily away to sort out our drinks. I watched her go, and then turned back. 'I'm James Connelly,' I said. 'I'm Virginie Ledoyen,' she answered. I smiled. 'Now I recognise you. I thought your face was familiar to me in the park but I just couldn't place you.' 'Hardly surprising with my face streaked with tears.' The waitress came back with our drinks then, still smiling as she placed two glasses next to the two bottles of Stella Artois. 'I've just seen your new film, Miss Ledoyen. You were brilliant in it.' Virginie smiled. 'Thank you, that's very kind.' 'Is this your boyfriend,' said the waitress, looking at me with large eyes. I felt the colour rising in my cheeks. 'No, he is my friend. May we order please?,' she said quickly, I suspect to save me any further embarrassment. Virginie chose a grilled chicken salad, and I settled on the monkfish. I had eaten at Marion before and I knew how good the food was. After we had ordered she leant back in her seat and had a good slug of beer straight from the bottle. She placed the Stella back on the table with a bump and let out a long sigh. 'All right?' I said from behind my own bottle. She nodded. 'Much better now I'm out of that wind. Thank you for inviting me here, it's a nice place.' 'Even with excitable waitresses?' She shrugged. 'It is part of the job, getting recognised. To be honest with you it doesn't really happen all that much, and when it does people are usually only saying nice things to me. I can't complain.' 'Do you live in the city?' 'Yes. For the past four years. Are you a tourist here?' I took another gulp of beer, shaking my head as I did so. 'No, I live here too. Only a few streets from this place.' 'What's a nice Englishman like you doing in the big City, James?' I proceeded to relate to her how I had ended up in France. I'd been looking for a good location to set my novel, and after much deliberation had settled upon Paris. Instead of taking a couple of sightseeing trips and working from references, I'd actually wanted to write the book in the very centre of the fictional landscape that I was creating. I took the advance that the publishing company had given me and added some of my own savings, before packing a bag and jetting out. I'd spent a couple of nights in a cheap hotel before chancing upon the apartment, and that was where I'd been situated ever since. And it was, or had been, working out fine. I'd been writing around six to seven thousand words per day, keeping myself to myself and having Sundays off to relax and see the city. Every week I'd e-mail pages to my editor, and amazingly I was getting a good response. Everything was happening just as I'd planned, until the severe case of writers block had infected me and work had ground to a shuddering halt. Virginie listened intently as I told her all this, and by the time I had finished our food had arrived. We were both quiet for a couple of minutes as we ate. My monkfish was delicious, and when I offered Virginie a taste she accepted, taking the succulent fish straight from my fork as I held it out to her. Paris Winter 'So, did you come out here to follow in Hemmingway's footsteps?' She asked. 'Probably. I don't know. It seemed like a good idea at the time, and as I said, all my plans were going just as I had wanted.' 'Have you met anyone since you arrived?' 'A few guys who drink around here, and I'm friendly with the old man who lives above me. Truthfully, I came here to write, and I've been fairly well disciplined.' 'I meant have you met anyone special. A girl?' I shook my head. 'You're the first girl I've spoken to that hasn't worked in a Patisserie or a bar since I've been here.' I paused. 'Well, except for an argument I had with my psychotic neighbour after she woke me up with the sounds of her beating her boyfriend.' Virginie laughed. 'Excuse me?' 'Doesn't matter,' I said, laughing also. 'Let's just say that I don't live in the most luxurious building in Paris, and my neighbours seem to fit in pretty well.' 'Maybe that's the answer then. Maybe you need to meet someone special.' She lowered her fork to her plate and then placed her hand over mine, squeezed gently. Her fingers were small and soft, the nails neat and unpainted. I looked up directly into her dark eyes. There was a knot of excitement in my stomach. 'Perhaps I do,' I replied in a low voice, my hand curling around hers. After working our way through another round of beers and a slice of thick, almost obscenely rich chocolate tart, we left Marion. If anything, the wind had grown colder, especially in contrast to the heat of the bar, and as we walked quickly along the street I had to clamp my mouth shut to stop my teeth from chattering. Virginie held tightly onto my arm and stayed close to me, leaning against my body to shield herself from the wind. 'What are you doing for the rest of the day?' She inquired, raising her voice against the howl of the wind and the rushing of the traffic. 'I don't intend to walk around outside for much longer, I said. We had reached the corner of the street that led onto my own, and I stopped walking and pulled her towards the wall of the bank that stood proudly at the intersection. 'This is me,' I said. 'My place is just down here.' She peered at the crumbling turn-of-the-century buildings that lined my street, and smiled. 'This figures. This is just the kind of building I would have expected.' 'I don't want to disappoint.' 'You haven't so far.' She smiled again and grasped hold of my hand. 'If you've got heat and coffee in that place, James, I'm yours for the afternoon. I'd like to see your work, too.' It was a true surprise to see that someone had fixed the elevator, and we rode slowly up to the third floor. The mechanism coughed and hitched once or twice, and I felt sure that we would be trapped in the small cage for the rest of the day. However, with this beautiful woman next to me that might not have been such a bad thing. As we approached my door I heard my neighbours at war again. There was a loud shout, followed by the sound of glass breaking, and the door was flung open and the woman stormed out. As usual, her hair looked almost painfully scraped away from her face and her eyes flashed like lightning storms. She glared at us as she passed, and I was delighted to see that Virginie glared right back. 'That's the psycho?' she whispered. I nodded, watching as she stomped away toward the lobby. 'Do you think her partner is Okay?' 'I hope so. I can't say I've ever seen him. Maybe he likes the abuse.' I turned the key in the lock of my own battered front door and pushed it open, leaving space for Virginie to enter first. Mercifully the heat was working, and the room seemed to glow with welcome. I took her coat and hung it carefully on the only hook on the back of the door, and threw my own jacket across the back of the couch. Before we had entered the building I'd bought coffee and fresh milk from the Patisserie downstairs, and I made my way to the kitchen and got the kettle on the boil while Virginie cast her gaze around the room. 'It is good here,' she said, moving towards the windows. 'Good light.' I shook my head in agreement, carefully spooning coffee beans into the machine. 'It's basic, but I do like it. Have a look at the rest of the place, it won't take long.' It felt good to have someone in the apartment with me. Since I had arrived in Paris the only eyes to have seen it apart from my own were the landlord and the postman, and that was only a handful of times. As I said before, I had deliberately avoided making friends here, so as to concentrate fully on my work, and I guess if I had thought long and hard about it I would have realised that I was possibly lonely. I spoke to friends and family back in England, but that wasn't the same as having them to hand as and when I needed them. 'It's very charming,' said Virginie as we moved from the living room to the bedroom. 'You mean scruffy?' 'What is scruffy?' 'You know, old. Untidy.' She nodded. 'Non, it is good. I like it.' It was only then that I realised I'd been holding her hand as we walked from room to room. Her skin was smooth against mine, and her fingers were interlaced with my own. She marvelled at the bathroom, which really is the only impressive part of the place, with walls painted a deep red and a skylight high in place above the, as I have already described, huge bathtub. 'I bet you have had many girls in here,' she said. I let out a small laugh at her forthright question, but before I could summon up a smart enough reply she turned to me, wrapped her arms around my neck and pulled my face down to her own. I could feel my heart beating, and felt sure she would too, as we kissed, our mouths slightly apart and our tongues barely touching. When we parted a tiny strand of saliva broke between us. 'What was that for,' I said, my face inches away from her own. 'You didn't like?' 'I liked very much, it was unexpected, that's all.' She kissed me lightly again. 'Come on, let's get some coffee and you can show me what it is that you write.' Back in the living room I got the mugs and started to pour the dark coffee and cream while Virginie stood looking over my desk at the various sheets of manuscript that were arranged there. Although I'd had a good feeling back a the bar that something was passing between us, especially when we were holding hands, I can truthfully say that her kiss took me completely by surprise. It had been months since I'd been close to someone and I had forgot how good a single kiss could make you feel. Looking across at Virginie as I stirred the drinks, taking in the soft curves of her slender body and the tumbling tresses of black hair, I hoped that the moment would be repeated. 'Is this the book?' she asked, as I crossed to the desk and placed the mugs on a sheet of paper near the edge of the desktop. She brushed her hand across my leather bound notebook that was open to reveal my spidery handwriting. 'No, that's just my diary,' I said, sitting in the chair and opening the screen of the laptop. 'My real work is inside here.' I powered the computer up and loaded the files for my novel. This was the first time that I had shown it to anyone except for my agent, and usually I never revealed anything to anyone until the project was completed. However, that afternoon, Virginie crouching next to me and the air filled with her scent and the aroma of good coffee, I finally let my defences down. The first chapter filled the screen and she bent closer to read it. 'Have this chair,' I said, starting to rise, and she placed a gentle but firm hand upon my shoulder and pushed me back down. Before I could protest she moved between my open legs and sat down on me, her bottom resting mostly on my left thigh and a little way on my crotch. She looked over her shoulder at me. 'I'll just sit here if I'm not to heavy for you.' 'Of course you're not,' I replied, shifting slightly in my seat to get a little more comfortable. 'That is, as long as you don't mind me putting my arm around you?' She shook her head and turned back to the screen, and I slid my left hand around her waist, the soft wool on her sweater crackling slightly to my touch as I did so. Virginie leant back against me as she started to read, and I slowly caressed her stomach with my fingers and rested my chin on her shoulder, seeing again the words that I had read so many times and breathing in the clean fragrance of her hair. She moved her body forward to access another page, and I slipped my other arm around her and hugged her back towards me. We stayed that way for a few minutes, Virginie reading in silence as I enjoyed the feeling of her and hoped that she approved of what she saw. Once more she turned her face towards mine. 'You didn't say there was sex in this?' She grinned. I gave her a sheepish look. 'A little maybe. Nothing too gratuitous.' As I said this she turned back to continue reading, but raised her arm and lightly stroked the back of my neck while pressing herself into me. Her rear pushed down further onto my crotch and I could feel the beginnings of an erection. I lowered my head and kissed the exposed skin of her neck that peeked through her hair, and let my hands roam across her stomach further. Her skin tasted sweet, and I grazed it with my teeth gently, causing her to gasp. 'You're distracting me from the book,' she muttered, but her hand still touched my hair. 'Shall I stop?' I said, giving her another playful bite. 'I didn't say that.' I fingered the button at the base of her sweater. 'Are you still reading the sexual part?' I said, and when she nodded her reply I continued, 'why don't you read it aloud so I can hear it?' I resumed the kissing of her neck as Virginie began to read my words, bringing life into the printed page. My two characters were having an erotic encounter at the edge of some woodland, and I had described their coupling quite graphically. When I'd written the scene I'd thought it was fairly arousing, but now, with Virginie's French accent breathing the words into my ear, it had taken on an incredible sexuality. As she read, I slowly started to unclasp the buttons on her sweater, working my way up from the bottom of the garment. I fingers rose up over the swell of her breasts, and by the time I popped the last button she had almost ceased to read, and her breath came in a more hurried manner. My eyes had been closed as I listened to her voice, but I opened them as I spread her sweater wide, exposing her small breasts which were secured by a white, lace trimmed bra. I draw my fingers up the bare skin of her tummy, and when I cupped her breasts in my hands, hard nipples pushing through the thin cotton, she laid her head back fully against my shoulder. My erection was full, pushing into her bottom, and as I caressed her nipples, slipping first one then the other over the edges of the bra, she began to rub herself against my hard penis. Virginie turned her head, and we kissed deeply, tongues pushing urgently against each other, licking around each other's mouths. I unfastened the clasp of her bra, and pulled both it and the sweater away from her body, before taking her soft breasts into my hands once more, delighting in the touch of her nipples against my palms. I started to creep one of my hands lower, across her stomach and down onto her thigh, and as I did so she opened her legs in anticipation, all the while rubbing her behind harder and harder into me. She was wearing grey trousers that showed her legs off beautifully, and I ran my hand up over her knee and onto her inner thigh. Virginie turned and we kissed even harder as I pushed my hand softly between her legs, and even through her trousers I could feel the heat that was coming from her body. I flattened my palm and pushed against her, rubbing her while forcing her bottom up and down onto me, causing both of our gasps to fill the room and compete against the sound of the rain lashing the window. And then she was gone, if only briefly, as she stood and turned to face me, before sliding back down onto my lap and locking her mouth to mine once more. I raked my nails down the skin of her back, feeling perspiration, and I pulled her away, gazing at her gorgeous breasts before dropping my head and taking a nipple in my mouth, nibbling with my teeth, brushing it with my tongue. 'Oh my God,' Virginie moaned, 'let us make love right here.' I released her nipple and glanced at the large window that we were positioned directly infront of. Although the third floor was obviously not visible to the busy street, there were buildings opposite that had a good view of my apartment. Anyone could see us if they cared to look, but right now I was to turned on to care. We both stood, undressing each other quickly, and in a few moments we were both naked. Virginie pushed me back down into my chair, straddled me once again and wrapped her arms around my neck. Our eyes remained locked on each other as she lowered herself onto me, and first I felt her nipples brush the hair of my chest before my penis sank slowly and deeply inside her hot vagina. I felt my whole body shudder with the pleasure of this beautiful woman on me, and I closed my eyes and grasped her tightly, not moving, only savouring the tightness of her inner body. Virginie started to lick my ear, and gradually we began rocking back and forth against one another, a small movement that caused awesome sensations for the two of us. We made love by the window for almost an hour, sweat running from our skins, unconcerned if the rest of the city were crowded around the windows of the other buildings watching us. Virginie bit into my neck as she reached her orgasm, almost drawing blood on my skin, which caused me to cry out and grab her writhing buttocks firmly in my hands. I slammed her body down onto me, and then my own orgasm hit hard, my semen pumping into her again and again, my breath hot and almost agonised against the smoothness of her flushed face. She raised her head and looked at me, breathing hard and eyes shining, and we both started to giggle. The giggle turned into a laugh, and we may have laughed the rest of the afternoon away if I had not stopped it by kissing her once more, before asking her to stay for the rest of the day. 'I love the stars. They always seem so peaceful.' 'Peaceful? That's a good way to describe them,' I replied. She sighed. 'They look down on us from light years away, millions of years old. Some that we see are not even there anymore.' 'A friend of mine once used to say that when someone dies, they become a star. I always liked the idea of that.' 'Yes, that's a beautiful idea,' she said, and then paused, let a a small sigh. 'Do you think that just applies to people?' I closed my eyes and scolded myself inwardly. I'd forgotten that when I'd first met Virginie earlier that day down by the river she had been upset due to the loss of her dog. 'I'm sure it applies to everyone, honey,' I said quietly, kissing her wet hair that lay against my face. 'I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking when I said that.' She gripped my hand tighter in her own, sending ripples shooting out across the water. 'Don't be silly. With that thought I can name a star after him.' We lay quietly for a few minutes, Virginie leaning back against me as the hot water of the bath washed around us, and both watched the Parisian night sky drift slowly past the skylight. The room was a dim glow due to the candles I'd lit, and the soft light bouncing off the dark walls combined with the wine that we had both drunk was starting to make me feel tired. I picked the soap up from the tray and lathered it in my hands, then began to wash Virginie's shoulders, massaging my fingers into her soft skin before moving down to her breasts. In the distance I heard the clock strike seven. 'Do you want to go and eat?' I said, working the lather around her pink nipples that stood proudly from the water. 'I'm fine, unless you want to,' she replied. 'Anyway, I feel like a big lazy cat lying here. I don't think I ever want to get out.' She stretched her lean body, and I felt myself begin to grow hard once again. Virginie felt it too, and reached a hand down under the water, taking my testicles in her hand and stroking them gently, before sliding her fingers up and down my shaft. I ran my own hand down through her dark, matted pubic hair and slid a finger into her, encountering a wetness that wasn't from the water. Above us, tens of thousands of miles away, the moon coasted into the range of the skylight, and an almost ghostly glow filled the bathroom, illuminating our wet skins as we became one again. I awoke from the depths of sleep to find hot shafts of sunlight pouring across the bed. The rain and winter weather appeared to have lost it's grip on the city for the time, and I could even hear the faint calling of gulls through the partially opened window. I stretched my hand across the bed to touch her body, to wake her and show her the morning, but I found nothing except an expanse of cool sheet. I sat up and stared dumbly at the bed for a moment, as if Virginie would somehow materialise infront of me. My voice sounded loud and lonely when I called her name, and I listened closely for the sounds of her in the bathroom or living room, but there was nothing except for silence. Had I dreamed of her? My legs felt shaky and my body stiff as I clambered from the bed to use the bathroom, and as I urinated I saw a pile of towels on the tiles, from where I remembered the two of us drying each other after we had finally left the comforting water. A dream? No. This was too real to be anything but reality. Naked, I walked into the living room. Her clothes were gone from where they had lay strewn around my desk, and my own jacket was now replaced neatly on the peg behind the front door. A feeling of sadness came to me; had she just upped and left without saying goodbye? That didn't seem like her at all. We had lain in bed talking deep into the night, discussing our families and friends, very intimate things, and by the time I'd fallen asleep with Virginie cradled in my arms I had begun to sense the onset of real feelings for her. I thumbed the switch on the kettle for hot water, and crossed over to the desk to collect the mugs that we had left there last night. The coffee was still there, cold and untasted, forgotten about as passion overcame us. The powerbook lay closed on the desk, and on top of it was a note, written in a fine, elegant script which made my own handwriting look like the work of a five-year old. I picked up the sheet of paper and read: Had an early appointment this morning, didn't want to wake you. You look so peaceful when you are asleep. Yesterday was wonderful. I hope that our day has given you something to write about. Please call me later. My love, Virginie. Her telephone number was written underneath her name. I read the note a second time and smiled broadly before placing it carefully back next to the computer. The whistle of the kettle filled the kitchen, and I made myself coffee and returned to sit at my desk, before folding the screen of the laptop open and firing it into life. The screen hummed and glowed a faint blue as I loaded up the last chapter that I'd been working on, a chapter that had not seen new words added to it for the last few days. My fingers hovered expectantly over the keyboard, poised for action. Outside, the traffic was already moving. In the apartment, the water pipes were groaning like a wounded man. Through my front door and across the hall, I could already hear the neighbours from hell gearing up for another battle. And later that day, somewhere in the city of Paris, Virginie would be expecting my call. My hands dropped to laptop and began to type. Steadily, consciously, continuously. Paris Winter Everything was going to be fine.