Standing On A Chair

Telling it like I see it…

Stories from the Chair: My One-legged Lover in Paris – Part Nine

What was so deliciously unusual was that this boy bought me a cordovan brown leather jacket, cut in at the waist just like his, before we’d even told each other things like our ages, where we were from, how we grew up, and what our dreams were.  Truth is we spent all afternoon, until dark, casually walking through those narrow Parisian streets, ambling along the Seine, watching people feeding pigeons, and generally saying nothing.  It was like we were in a small bubble stuffed with feelings and sensations and there was no room left for words. 

We finally stopped at an outdoor café and ordered wine, which turned out to be what popped the cork and got us talking.  I know this is cliché, but really, time kind of did stand still, and we were only vaguely aware of other people, sitting at other tables. 

Chris was 27 years old, grew up I don’t remember where, he had always loved his guitar and started singing as a little kid.  He loved his parents, went to college I don’t remember where, moved to France, got an agent, and had been recording demos and gigging for the past two years, some solo jobs and others with established groups.  He believed “making it” in Europe would best lead to “making it” into the toughU.S.music scene. 

At this point in time, he had not yet “made it.”

He listened intently when I talked about myself, asking questions, wanting more details. 

He frequently stroked my black-and-blue jaw.

He put his hand with its long full fingers over mine on the tabletop, a few fine dark hairs of his wrist poking out from the cuff of his jacket sleeve.

And then he told me.

He was born without a tibia or fibula, and had only half of a femur in his left leg.

He said they told him the flesh was there…just no bones from mid-thigh down. 

So they amputated when he was an infant.

What I had seen in his limp, was the forward thrust of the hydraulic prosthetic leg he wore hidden under his jeans. 

Two hours, and a bottle-and-a-half of wine later, we hopped in a taxi, and it was in the back seat of that taxi that he kissed me, ever so gently because quite frankly my face was still sore and I couldn’t move my mouth very well.  The softness and lightness of that kiss moved rhythmic waves of warmth through me like the jets in a hot tub turned on slow pulse.

We pulled up in front of my little hotel, and the driver sat patiently staring ahead as Chris and I stayed seated in the back, grabbing just a few more minutes, again saying nothing, our hands held together between us.

“Can I pick you up in the morning?” he finally said.  “Spend the day?”

“After breakfast okay?  Meeting my friends…we have breakfast together every morning.”

“Noon?”

“I can’t wait.”

Stay Tuned for Part Ten

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May 22, 2012 - Posted by | Foreign Travel | , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

1 Comment »

  1. love it as usual- wish you were here to discuss it with me!

    Comment by gerinomad | May 22, 2012 | Reply


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