Lindsay's with a slightly older woman when we meet her outside the grad lounge. The sun's sinking if it hasn't already sunk. It's tough to tell in Paris since most every street is like being at the bottom of some concrete ravine. The whole city's a maze of ravines really, and there's now horizon to be seen lest you find yourself on the river or in a garden or on one of the great main thoroughfares. Where we are is neither of these things though. The grad lounge is on a skinny street in the 7th, down a cobblestone driveway closed off to cars by a trio of concrete waist-high pillars that Lili and I sit on like low stools while we smoke cigarettes. The older woman seems alert and aloof at the same time under blonde locks and an artful smile. She carries herself like a relaxed professional. "This is my mom," Lindsay says.
"Diane," says Lindsay's mother. "It's nice to meet you." And she shakes both our hands. First Lili's, then mine.
"Diane, Brian. It's a pleasure," I say.
"Whatcha guys drinking there?" she asks.
"Oh, these?" Lili waves around the clear plastic cup in her non-shaking hand. In her shaking hand she now holds a cigarette. The pink liquid inside the cup sloshes just close enough to the rim without spilling. "You wouldn't want any of these..." Maybe she's a little drunk. Just a little tipsy at least. Maybe we both are.
"Well, what is it?" ask Lindsay prying.
"Drunk juice," I whisper motioning at Lili.
But she interjects. "Cosmos, actually. They're in the grad lounge, and there's a lot."
So it's to the grad lounge we go, for strong cosmos and more small talk with the other grad students. Diane keeps pace and tells us she isn't even that jet-lagged. She's in sales she tells us. It just comes with the trade, this professional wherewithal through heavy boozing and time-zone changes. She's a champ, and has the charm and flair of a woman one immediately wants to know more about. She's intriguing and very much impressive.
"Did you want another one, Diane?" Lili asks.
"Uh, yeah," she retorts with a gaffe. "I'm on vacation."
It brings a quick laugh and I say, "All-righty then. This is going to be a good night, I think."
"I expect nothing less," she says, and then turning to Lindsay, "Speaking of which, where were you telling me we're going for dinner again dear?"
She catches Lindsay mid-sip and makes her tilt her head back to quickly gulp. "Mmm. Yes. So this girl in one of my classes is singing and playing jazz piano at a little restaurant bar in the 3rd."
"Ooo. I likey."
We each pour ourselves another plastic cup of cosmos and head back out into the cold city nightscape and make steps towards the metro. My scarf's not drawn so tight around my neck anymore. Not like I'd been doing when I'd first arrived, when I'd been younger and so much dumber. So stupid as to think that this thin California scarf would do any good out here. I wear it loose now, wrapped around to the full length, just trying to make it as bulky as possible. It's in some ways futile. I'm still freezing, but on the same token, any little thing helps, and I tuck my chin into the folds and stand upright as I walk. Talking helps too, and the conversation's ripe.
Lili rifles through her bag and procures a half pack of cigarettes. She's smoking Marlboro No. 27s. "Moi aussi?" I say. "Sil vous plait?"
She shoots me a look incredulous before saying, "Fine," and tossing me the pack and lighting her cigarette and tossing me the lighter too. She blows out her first puff slow and turns to Lindsay. "So what class is this chick in that we're going to see?"
"She's in my creative writing class."
My eyes spark with the lighter at the mention, and I pull one deep and say with a smile, "I didn't know Olivia played jazz piano."
"It's not Olivia," she says short and flustered. "Jerk."
"Who's Olivia?" Diane's intrigued, and it's funny to me.
"Oh, Olivia? Well, umm... she's just a girl, I suppose," I say. "One of those writer types and Lindsay's in love with her."
"I'm not in love with her," says Lindsay. "She's in my writing class and she's just... Ugh, she's amazing. I wish I could write like her."
"I'm probably better," I say with an obnoxious chest puff as I look down.
"Ha! You wish. She writes so well."
"You mean good?" I'm prodding now. It happens when I'm drunk.
"No. Idiot."
"Hehe. Well, this idiot's gotta get coffee with her later and, you know, talk about writing things."
"I hate you."
"Wait." Diane's lost track. "So how does Brian know her?"
"It's ridiculous," and Lindsay tells her whilst we stroll down Rue de St. Germaine. "He just picks it up and is like 'Oh, I know her, I think' like that's normal," and so on and so on.
"Huh. Random," says Diane after.
"More chancely romantic I like to think, mais c'est la vie" I say smiling at Lindsay, and she wrinkles her face in a pout.
[works done]
Lili's a bit more cynical. "It's cool Diane, he'll get what's coming to him. We're pretty sure the girl he's really infatuated with, who he's over the moon for, head before heels like a little school boy - he's to death in love with her he tell me - and we're pretty sure she's a lesbian."
"I never said that," I quip back. "And no, she is not a lesbian."
"Dude. Yeah, she is. Or at least bisexual. I've got a certain feel for these sort of things," she says with a twisted smile. "And I'm gonna hook up with her before you do."
"Ha! That's right," says Lindsay looking at me, then to Lili. "Do it, Lil!" She's got a taste for retribution now.
"Um... I will. She's beautiful."
"God, yes. She is. But please don't," I plead. "Please?" I hate the game this has become, especially with that rare gem of a girl that genuinely piques my heart's interest. That dear sweet Rachel.
Meanwhile, Diane can't get enough of it. She can barely get a word in edgewise between our squabbling and her bouts of laughter. "You guys are all ridiculous," she says finally somewhere by the Seine near Pont de l'Alma. "It's like you're living your way through some... some Woody Allen movie over here! I love it!"
And we love her. Me and Lili because she's a fast-talking cool wino of a mom, and Lindsay because, well, she has to. It's not so much of a chore though as it is an amiable admiration of the most precious kind. She's wonderful, and as we board the metro headed for the 13th, I can't help but think about what a Woody Allen sort of meander I've blown through out here. I'd left LA to get away from all the craziness, all the distractions of the opposite gender, but life's dramatic as ever in Paris. Woody would be proud.
[closing time]
