Plum Blossoms in Paris Read Online Free Page B

at the very least, they find me colorful. But nobody, not even the dog, cracks a smile. A ticket agent approaches, and I perform a soft-shoe number with him, during which he has the nerve to frown disapprovingly.
“Pardonnez-moi, Monsieur!”
    Finally, I’m in range of the ridiculous object, which shrieks,
For Emergency Use Only!
I bend down to retrieve it. My outstretched fingers brush against the leather of a black satchel. The bag is soft yet firm, like the skin of a man’s shoulder. I lock onto the canister, relieved to be done with this genuflection, and start to rise.
    “You bring your oxygen with you at all times, then?” a voice asks.
    Half crouching, I confront a pair of almond-colored eyes, inches away. Startled, I retreat to a fully upright position. The stranger, the owner of the interested eyes, offers an amused half smile and continues, “Or is it only in France?”
    Flustered, I laugh a little. I scramble to think how he knows I’m not French. There are three languages of cautionary warnings on the canister. Why couldn’t I be French?
    “I could use some right now. I think I just sucked all the air out of the car.”
    His face is long and intelligent, and when he looks at me, I feel like I might finally forget my name. “Do not let them fool you. Parisians are like a—how do you say?—a cult. They enjoy making outsiders, particularly Americans, feel like outsiders.” His accent isthick, but his words aren’t clunky, delivered with a natural rhythm that makes me believe he has spent a lot of time abroad, in England or the U.S.
    “How did they know I’m American?” I can’t help but ask, forgetting my little performance of thirty seconds ago.
    “Well, are you not?”
    “Yes, but I don’t understand.” I frown. “Are we that hopelessly out of place?”
    “I heard your accent; the others likely did too. And the apologizing?” He nods and offers a wry smile. “For all their occasional bluster, I find Americans to be the most insecure nation of people.”
    Stung, I retort, “And I am finding the French to be the most judgmental.”
    He laughs. “You are probably right about this.” His eyes flick to his book, about the size of his hand. Small, intense font. He seems finished with me.
    His ready detachment curls my toes into their Keds.
    The ticket agent returns to find me still making his life miserable. Turning to leave, I realize I have a book in my left hand, a finger marking some phantom place on page who-gives-a-crap. Before I can take a step, the stranger’s eyes, alerted to the book by the flapping of its pages—a soft, airy
phfft
—as I allow the leaves to run over my thumb in dissatisfaction, catch the title. I don’t know if it’s my imagination, but his face illuminates, like a child’s when entrusted with a delicious secret, and he exhales from a pocket of ecstasy I cannot fathom. Looking up at me, eyes burning, he remarks,
“
I apologize. I see the whole of your situation now.”
    “And what is that?” I ask, baffled. I’m not used to people talking like this. You know, with sincerity.
    His eyes are like my father’s at his best: clear and brilliant, believing the best in me. “You are no tourist.”
    He turns back to his little book without another word. I am transported, without legs, back to my seat. I do not think I breathe until the train pulls into a station, and the doors part with a soft
swoosh
. He rises to exit the train, never looking back.
    I watch him go.

Chapter

4
    T he stranger on the train derails me, and I am aimless. My mind slips around a circle’s smooth edges. Forgetting the view outside my window, my first encounter with Paris is a blur, sliding past me like a silent, scratchy movie. I finally remember myself at Luxembourg station, which is on the Left Bank, adjacent to the famous Luxembourg Gardens. Catching the metro to Saint-Michel, I double back a bit. Muscles stitching from exhaustion, I lug my bags up the stairs, squinting into a