of his hair, scented with sandalwood oil, a precious gift from an Indian merchant.
As he unbuttons my midnight-blue ferace, he kisses me along the neckline. I look up through the hollow and see the moon has come out of hiding as her beams enter the cavity of the tree, illuminating us in silver light that pools at our feet. I draw his hand down the ornately embroidered edge of my ferace to where it parts, giving way to my sleep chemise. He sucks in his breath. His hand traces circles up my thigh—his fingernails pecks of moonlight against my skin. I pull at the sash at his waist, drawing him closer, and arc my body into his.
The boughs of our twinned-trees curve down from the sky, screening the entrance to our hallowed space. Stardust shines as it cascades around us, giving rise to tiny sparks that bounce off our bodies.
“Run with me,” I whisper.
“Anywhere,” he says, sealing his lips over mine in a promise.
Khayyam
In America we bulldoze our past, build the future on the rubble, and pretend that ghosts can’t haunt us. I wonder if sometimes we ignore their voices because we’re scared of hearing ourselves in their echoes. Maybe that’s why I love Place des Vosges. It’s the oldest planned square in a very old city, and you can almost feel whispers of the past commingling with the present here. Turn away from the people scrolling on their phones and taking selfies, and you’ll find the oldest graffiti in Paris on one of the stone pillars around the perimeter of the park: 1764 Nicola. A guy who wrote a book about his observations in Paris and simply wanted the world to know that, once, he was here, too. That, once, he made his mark.
Another reason why my love for this place endures? Place des Vosges has grass you can sit on. Garden after garden in Paris forbids sitting or walking on the grass. It’s like grass is this untouchable objet d’art and not a tangible childhood memory of freshly mowed lawns that spark with fireflies during games of Ghosts in the Graveyard. But at Place des Vosges, I can sink my Midwestern-raised toes into the lawn. It’s a reminder that, like Nicola, I found a place here, too.
Alexandre and I didn’t choose a specific meeting point. I don’t see him by the seesaws, so I walk around the park. It’s filled with tourists and some poor, unfortunate Parisians who apparently have to keep the city running for all the out-of-towners. I tap my phone with an itchy trigger finger—I don’t want to text him and reek of eau de desperation. He’s only ten minutes late. Fifteen minutes is an acceptable level of tardiness in France. Being on time is actually a bit rude, especially if you’re going to someone’s house. But that’s nothing compared to Indian Standard Time. I don’t think I’ve been to a single desi wedding that started less than an hour late.
This cultural one-two punch of lateness compels the contrarian in me to be punctual. Besides, I hate being late, because I always feel like I’m on the verge of missing out on something important.
“Khayyam, bonjour!”
I turn at the sound of my name. Alexandre smiles at me as he sidesteps a gaggle of tourists. He’s even cuter than my memory gives him credit for: wavy reddish-brown curls and a fitted white T-shirt highlighting his tanned skin. He kisses me on both cheeks. In France, la bise—the two-cheek kiss—is perfunctory, an easy, informal greeting between friends and family. But the feather-touch of Alexandre’s lips makes me catch my breath. His cheek barely brushes mine. Yet it’s a whisper on my skin that feels like a promise.
Can’t read into this. Shouldn’t.
But the last time I felt this sensation—this effervescence—was that moment under the Southport Street ‘L’ stop when Zaid’s lips hovered just above mine. And closing that distance with a kiss felt like capturing eternity.
Okay, well, maybe Alexandre’s peck on my cheek didn’t feel quite like my first actual kiss with Zaid. Besides I’m guessing that for Alexandre, la bise is just la bise.
“That dress looks beautiful on you,” he says.
I look down at one of my summer staples: a magenta voile shift with pink embroidery