The Frenchman

The early morning air was brisk and foggy around Paris. Many folks were still fast asleep while one little French man began to stir in his slumber. He awoke with a start, another nightmare having plagued his subconscious. He ran a hand through his damp mop of hair and tossed back the saturated duvet. He reached down, pulling on his discarded trousers from the night before.

His bare chest pimpled up as a cool draft entered the room from the hotel's cracked window. The French man sat at the small round table, taking an unlit cigarette between his chapped lips. He stared into the fog filled street, watching silhouettes as they ran to and fro across the street. He lit his cigarette, resting his throbbing head in the palm of his hand.

The man glanced back towards his bed, sighing in dismay at the sight of another body beneath the covers he had just vacated. His stomach dropped in his abdomen as he attempted pulling the woman's name from his memory. Nothing came to him. Just that she was an Italian dancer. He recalled her appearance in his hungover haze.

Dark hair, red lips, and the most startling pair of brown eyes he had ever seen. Who could forget a face like that? He pulled his gaze away from the bed, taking a long drag from his cigarette. He scratched his beard in thought, wishing he could just sneak out the door before the woman awoke, but sadly this was his "humble abode" as he had stupidly told his guest the night before they had slipped beneath those tousled sheets.

His eyes danced to the tall bottle of brandy he'd drunk from before wandering down to a local pub. He reached out, taking the cool bottle in his hand and suddenly, the thirst began to set in. No ordinary thirst at that. Without a secondary thought, he brought the brandy to his lips and sucked like a baby from its mother's teat.

He slammed the bottle on the table, gasping for air as he had forgotten to breathe. The woman stirred in her sleep, turning over closer to his side of the bed. He flicked his cigarette against the ash tray, dying embers shining in the pale morning light.

His nightmare came back to haunt his awakened consciousness. A flash of a gun in his face nearly caused him to tip the chair over as he jumped to his feet. He surveyed the room with a racing heart, his stomach suddenly heaving. The woman did not stir this time, her soft snores muffled by the duvet covering her face.

Eyes still darting around the room, he spotted one of his discarded sweaters thrown lazily over the arm of the loveseat. The Frenchman showed no hesitation as he sauntered over, snatching it up before pulling it over his head. His heart never stopped racing and the room began to feel as if it were shrinking.

He froze when he saw his discarded cigarette burning a hole into the carpet. He cursed himself and plucked it up between his thumb and pointer finger, putting it between his teeth as he grabbed his boots. After slinging a jacket on, he stuffed a room key into his pants pocket. With boots in hand, he snuck out the door.

The Frenchman tugged his boots on while he waited for the small elevator to reach his floor. A bell rang through the air, making the man cringe as he cradled his head. He entered the elevator, ignoring the other riders as they rode down to the main lobby. He tugged a hood over his ears as he made a bee line for the exit.

His headache intensified as he stepped into the chilly air. He began to wander, as he often did when the nightmares kept him from sleeping.

After walking for the better part of an hour, he sat himself down on a park bench, people watching. He finished his second cigarette, tossing the butt into a puddle on the street. He tipped his head up to the grey sky, his bloodshot eyes feeling clearer than they had in a long time. He thought back to the night before, to the woman he had danced with into the early morning hours before bringing her back to his room.

He then thought further back to the one that had gotten away. His beautiful but lack-lustered now ex-fiancee, Marjorie. The wonderful, ditzy, book smart young woman he thought he had loved until he had returned from war to find that she had moved on with another man.

He'd moved back to his mother country, took up drinking, and started smoking again. His mind drifted back to Catarina. That was her name! Catarina! The Frenchman's heart danced as he thought of how her tongue rolled on the r's when she said his name. Whenever she had said it, it came out like the purr of a kitten.

The smitten man reminisced about the warmth of her skin, how it tingled against his as they danced. Her body fit perfectly against his not just while they had danced. Even as drunk as he had been, he knew her body had fit against his like two pieces of a puzzle.

Back in the hotel room, Catarina awoke from her sleep, saddened she'd woken up alone. She dressed quickly and quietly, berating herself for joining a man in his room when she'd only know his name. 'But that's not the only reason I came back with him...' she thought to herself feeling pathetic. 'It had been a case of love at first sight.' She shook the thought from her head.

She spotted some stationary and a pen on the table by the window they had cracked open the night prior. Before Catarina could talk herself out of it, she sat at the table as she began to write a short note to leave for the Frenchman.

'Roger,' the letter began. 'Last night was wonderful. I hope that I'll see you again. Please meet me at one o'clock at the coffee shop on the corner from here.'

She signed it "XOXO Catarina." She left the note on the table and departed, her stomach a bundle of nerves.

Roger shakily rose to his feet, gripping the park bench as he had recalled the late night giggles and whispered conversations that had carried on into the night. He suddenly felt the urge-no the need-to run back to her. If she was his one, who was he to turn his back on that?

He found himself making his way back towards the hotel. He rounded a corner and froze spotting Catarina just down the street, wrapped in her red overcoat. Roger began to run, shouting her name as he crossed the street, but before she could turn to look at him, a bus ran a red stoplight. The driver, an inexperienced Hugo, honked the horn, but it was too late.

Roger's body laid slumped on the ground and Catarina turned away from the tragedy, her stomach too weak to even risk seeing a deceased person. People crowded around Roger, his vision becoming fuzzy and he felt his heart slowing. Someone took his hand, uttering some incomprehensible words to him.

His chapped lips parted, all he could taste was blood, and he whispered one single word, "Catarina," before the world went black before him.