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She neither knew, nor wished to know, what the foreign voices around her were saying on that chilly April evening as she sat alone in a café in Montparnasse. Long ago, she had read a story by Tennessee Williams in which he described the joy of being in Mexico before he understood the Spanish language, of how it was oddly comforting to somehow be beyond linguistic understanding. The only thing that made Tennessee want to know the language at all was when he met a beautiful young dancer there who caught his attention. He decided to speak Spanish then.
She had a similar experience in Paris. For months, she spoke very little to anyone. She had reached a point in her life where she almost felt she had nothing else to say. In fact, for a long time before leaving the states, she had toyed with the idea of choosing not to speak anymore at all in any language. And, on many days, by art or necessity, she would simply pass mutely through the Parisian streets without uttering a sound. It was truly liberating in a way. But, then, as fate would have it, a young French woman crossed paths with her and made her want to speak again. It was just that simple.
As had become her custom, she wrote in her rather shoddy apartment for the better part of the day and would creep quietly out, famished and dying of thirst, around 7 each evening. There was a small café around the corner she liked because it was largely unknown, but the sandwiches there were so good and the owner never talked a lot. He just allowed her to place her order and left her alone except to occasionally come and fill her coffee cup. After a time, he knew what she wanted to eat and didn't even ask her. He would see her come in, nod his head, begin making her sandwich, and she would silently sit down to wait for it to arrive. She would typically smoke a cigarette and relax, thinking about what she had written that day and wondering where she would go with it the next.
On one particularly grey Parisian evening, she was there enjoying her food as she noticed a young woman come in. She looked out of place in this downtrodden and mostly forgotten café. She was beautiful, sophisticated, and so painfully young. Her figure was slim and she was quite tall. Her eyes were dark, deep brown and shaped like someone from the far east or perhaps from somewhere she did not even know. Yet, something in her air was distinctly French. Her skin was a little bronze in color. Her perfectly beautiful jutting ass sprang out on display underneath her richly made black skirt. Something was jarring about the sensuality of that woman's face and her long beautiful dark hair. She seemed not to notice her surroundings at all as she briskly ordered a glass of wine and something to eat. The writer watched her for a time and noted that she was studiously writing on her laptop at her table. The writer imagined she was some up-and-coming something or other. She thought she belonged at a museum opening or a benefit gala or some such thing that young women of her ilk should be at. Soon, the writer's interest shifted inward to her own dark thoughts and forgot the young woman and the surroundings.
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The writer herself was a rather attractive, if somewhat distinctly separate, woman who looked as though she had at one time led a happy, carefree life. Now, she had the look of one who had experienced too much and did not really know what to do with herself. Still, her dark hair which loosely fell around her face, her fair skin, her lovely dark eyes garnered her the lion's share of attention from others wherever she went. Perhaps her inner solitude and almost total silence also worked to intrigue people, though that was not her intention on any level. She had quite enough of all of that in her youth and she really wanted to be undisturbed. Was it ennui that was on her face or was it sadness or was it both? Others wondered but she did not let them close enough to find out.
Yet, that evening in the café in Montparnasse, something strange happened. The young woman who had so fascinated the writer approached her table quietly and asked her very politely in French if she knew the time. The writer looked at her and extended her arm, pointing to the time on her wristwatch for the young woman to see. As she saw the time, the woman looked upset and said she had missed an appointment and didn't know what to do now that she had lost track of the time. The writer said nothing but studied the young woman's eyes. There was an electric current of life in her eyes. She was so alive, so very much alive. The writer said in guarded French, "Veuillez me joindre si vous inquietez avoir une boisson." The young woman gladly accepted the writer's offer for a drink and sat down, introducing herself as Iris, and politely asked her if she was English. The writer affirmed and then they began speaking slowly, haltingly. Of course, Iris had no idea that the writer had spoken to no one for months, that this was difficult for her for so many reasons. Somehow, Iris sensed something was going on beneath the surface of the writer's sad face, and she reached across the table and touched her hand. It was a simple gesture, but a powerful one. The writer felt deep kindness from Iris and allowed her hand to be touched.
They both finished their drinks and then Iris took the liberty of paying the bill and gently led the writer by the hand to a nearby club to hear a woman singing the blues. They both sat in silence absorbing the music. The club was crowded and dark. And the writer began to feel the weight of Iris' stare on her. She looked at her and suddenly the look of sadness in her dark eyes merged with desire. Iris took her hand and placed it between her thighs, knowing somehow that the writer needed to touch her sex desperately, as though some kind of healing might occur if she were allowed to feel her inside.
The young woman's sex readily yielded to the writer's hungry touch. As the sound of the young blueswoman singing Billie Holiday's "Love for Sale" echoed seemingly far away, the writer's fingers went in and out of the young woman's throbbing sex. It was so wet. It smelled faintly of the sea. The writer could smell it and feel it all over her fingertips. The young woman's beautiful, elegant face did not betray the fact that she was being moved toward orgasm underneath the table by a woman she did not even know. And as the singer sadly sang "If you want the thrill of love, I've been through the mill of love. Old love, new love, every love but true love," she began to cry and continued madly inserting her two fingers inside beautiful Iris' sex. The girl shuddered slightly and came.
The writer removed her fingers, using them to wipe her tear-splattered face. Iris smiled softly at the writer and gave her one soft, tender, agonizing young kiss on the writer's too-oft-kissed lips. The kiss was liquid and delicious, slow. The throbbing sensation began as Iris' tongue caressed her tongue. Everything else fell away as they kissed. And, as suddenly as they had engaged, they disengaged. Iris told her how much she had enjoyed the evening, slipped her number across the table to her, and asked her to call her sometime. The writer spoke softly and said she would do so. She watched the young woman walk out of the club, and she continued to sit enjoying the music. She knew then that she would call her and that she had found a reason to speak once more. Only, she decided, she would never speak English again. It was a tainted language. On the other hand, French offered up a world of brand-new possibilities and without any stain on the words. She smoked a cigarette and felt free.
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