Him: Another Story

Pierre walked along the Left Bank with a baguette under his arm. His full lips whistled a happy tune, and his stride suggested he had just gotten laid. Confident, eager, and content, he swept his jet-black hair away from his temples. He stopped, and quickly scanned the nearest patisserie. From his position on the Bank, he spotted his typical catch; a blonde with delicate features and big, searching eyes. She sat, charcoal in hand, scribbling in what looked like a well-worn leather-bound journal. Pierre was entranced, for a moment. Before he had a chance to move, she did, jumping up from her table, gulping the dregs of her French-pressed espresso. For a moment, it looked as though she would forget her journal, but she grabbed it before hurrying off.

            He ran to catch up with her.

            After an initial crash and spending some moments chasing an array of sketches, Pierre introduced himself.

            “Well, I’m Violet,” she replied with a toss of her tresses.

            “Ah, Violet. An American? An artist. These are wonderful,” he scanned his handful of charcoal drawings, likenesses of the Bank, Notre Dame, the Tower, and…

            “How long were you watching me?” He asked, smiling down at a quick sketch of himself, staring intently across the street.

            “Well…” she giggled and her cheeks went rosy. “Just long enough for you to notice me. You know how you can feel it when people are watching you? I thought maybe we needed to meet. “

            “So, Violet, how long will you be visiting our magnificent city?”

            She smiled slyly.  “How long will you let me stay?”

            “I’d say, at least long enough to have dinner with me tonight?”

            The plans made, he walked her to her hotel, and spoke of himself in his arrogant, yet not overly annoying way. With a soft kiss of her hand, he left her.

            “Good night, mon cherie. Until we meet again.”

            After a candlelit dinner the following evening, Pierre and Violet found themselves with nothing more to talk about. They digested in silence. The air between them, however, was full of sexual anticipation, as both expected the other to make the first move.

            In a flurry of passionate activity, Violet’s silk cocktail dress was thrown to the floor. The parlor was quickly transformed into a love den, and Pierre’s servants giggled at the impassioned squeals that were heard, all too easily, through the kitchen door.

            “And it’s only Tuesday,” Maria said, letting her hands sink into a basin of soapy water.

            “It’s happened before,” James replied matter-of-factly. “She is always blonde, and she is always…how shall I put it…easy. Quick. Passionate. Love-hungry…? At any rate, this Violet is no different than the many Jacquis, Maries, and Adriennes that have frequented that parlor.”

            The clean-up continued through the master’s lovemaking. After all, it was not unlike any other night, and the servants were used to it.