Paris is For Lovers (and Vampire Hunters)


I'm wrapping up final edits for IMMORAL: Tales of a Vampire Hunter, and spent the morning pinning pictures of the settings on Pinterest. Each photo I found seemed more haunting than the last, and I found myself longing to go there again, remembering all the things I love about the city I've visited more than any other.

This love affair has prompted me to set many stories in the City of Light, I realized. After a bit of rummaging around my collection of writing ideas and unfinished work, I came across this unfinished story. Sometimes, it's very clear why I never completed a particular piece, why I abandoned those words in favor of others. But, sometimes, I come across things I don't even remember writing, things that seem like they should have gone somewhere other than cold storage.
Like this one.

I Love Paris

What was I doing?

This was insane, heading down an alley in Paris with a man I didn't know like he was a trusted lover, his hand riding my ass like he owned it, like he wasn’t just some French fuck I’d picked up in a bar two minutes ago.

My week had been weird all around; I’d been traveling with my best friend, Lila, and my boyfriend, Scott, who bailed on me after a fight in Barcelona that started over the best train to take to London and ended with them confessing to a drunken fuck the night before. They are probably back in Portland now, two days early, fucking each other just like before we left, even though they denied it. Lying mother-fuckers.

I’d ended up at Harry's Bar because Scott had wanted to see it; the idea that F. Scott Fitzgerald and Hemmingway had frequented the place in the '20s and '30s apparently had given wannabe writer Scott a hard-on.

Tonight, the last night of my trip, I’d gone to spite him, feeling powerfully and happily alone. The bar was all right I guess, more knock-off French than “Casablanca”, but it was dark and the drinks were reasonable in a city where most tourist places were a total rip-off. After several glasses of house red and a few chanteuse songs I was sad and drunk as I wove a somewhat wobbly path toward the door.

Getting laid had been the last thing on my mind.

Read more

No comments:

Post a Comment

Talk to me . . .