Your Mark on Me

Chapter 36: Paris

On Thursday we went to Paris.

It wasn't planned. We were strolling in the Kew Gardens, holding hands, enjoying what he said was one of the few days of summer they had in England, talking about what other sightseeing we could do. Then, he remembered that Paris was at the top of my to-visit list.

"Why don't we go now?"

I laughed, but he didn't join me. "No, really. Why don't we? Let's be spontaneous."

"Umm... okay!"

I already had my passport in my purse, so we hopped on the tube to King's Cross and then on the Eurostar. In little over three hours we were in Gare du Nord.

Another thirty minutes later, I was staring at the Eiffel tower, with that strange sensation people have when they see someone famous on the street, someone they'd only seen before on television, or their favourite band live for the first time. It was as if a cut from a book had transcended to reality right there in front of me, taking a tridimensional shape and a much larger scale. "I can't believe we're here! We didn't even bring toothbrushes."

Mark raised an eyebrow, then chuckled and poked my nose. "Is that really your biggest worry, little one? Not where we're going to sleep tonight?"

"That too. And condoms. Trust me, they'll be more needed than the toothbrushes."

Mark's eyes widened; his mouth gaped open for a few seconds, as he stared at me, before regaining speech. "You... you're something else."

We dined at "Monsieur Bleu", then strolled up the cobbled winding streets of Montmartre to Sacré Coeur. There, we sat on the steps by the basilica, alongside the other tourists that had gathered for the same panoramic view of the sun setting over the city.

I leaned against Mark's arm, our hands intertwined. The music of an accordion from a performer on one of the streets below made its way to us, to make everything even more cheesy and romantic, as dusk was starting to unravel over Paris.

"Tout en chantant sur le mode mineur

L'amour vainqueur et la vie opportune

Ils n'ont pas l'air de croire à leur bonheur..."

I didn't finish whispering the stance. As Mark smiled at me, his eyes bluer than ever, I squeezed his hand tightly and he squeezed mine back.

He was there. He wasn't going anywhere.

I closed my eyes, leaning my head against his chest, listening to the accordion and to the chatter of the people above, and below us. I didn't know why, my eyes got teary.

Verlaine was onto something: I was afraid to let myself believe in this much happiness.

We spent the rest of the evening in a jazz bar, then, when it closed, we started looking for a hotel.

"We could just stay up all night", I suggested. "Or we could go here." We were just walking past a hostel, the light at the reception still on.

"Don't worry, we'll find something. Let's hop into a taxi, for now."

"What's wrong with staying at the hostel? It's what young people do."

He sighed. I knew I got to him. I didn't even know why I wanted it, perhaps I was sick of fancy places, perhaps I just wanted to see what it was like, sharing a room with a load of backpackers. To my disappointment though, and to Mark's relief, they had a spare private room.

I watched with amusement how horrified he was at the worn sheets, and how hard he tried not to touch anything unless absolutely necessary.

"I'm sorry, but I'm not getting naked on this bedding", Mark said, when we were cuddling under the cover, waiting to fall asleep.