Pictures of France

The year she studied in Paris she lived with Emily in an apartment with a view of the Boulevard Saint-Michel. At Christmas they hitchhiked to Bayeau to see the tapestry. A truck driver gave them a lift and never once mentioned Sartre. They found a nice room over a café, and on New Year’s Eve they went downstairs and danced all night with the locals.

They’re very Norman there, she says.

The new boyfriend nods.

When she was not studying she had traveled, and when she traveled she lived on bread and cheese.

That summer she and Emily hitchhiked to Marseille and sailed to Corsica. The Corsicans were still unhappy with the French.

I imagine, the new boyfriend says.

From Corsica they sailed back to Marseille, hitchhiked to Cannes, and then to Madrid. Spain had been dreadful. They caught a train to Paris. The whole time they ate bread and cheese.

I don’t think we took a single picture in Spain, she says.

Her father sent her money for a week in Leningrad. Lenin didn’t look anything like something that had once lived. They filed past the glass coffin while the guards ensured solemnity.

Russia was a disappointment, she says. Very dreary. The pictures came out poorly.

She has missed Paris since her return to the States. She remembers missing it so desperately and wanting to return and swearing she would. Paris had been the best year of her life.

She leans into the new boyfriend just enough for him to feel her shoulder against his. He isn’t really the new boyfriend, but with luck he will be by morning.

If he is the new boyfriend by morning she can begin the second best year of her life.

First, someone is going to have to kiss somebody. Someone needs to start the kissing.

Kissing someone the first time is like hitchhiking in a foreign country. You just stick out your thumb.