smrtiepants

[smrtiepants]

Paris. 2

During our second month of living together, I finally met Veronica, though only in passing. She’d come to drop off a few of Paris’ things, saying he’d need them.

“Thanks, I’ll let him know.” I mumbled as I shut the door.

Why she felt the need to drop them off in person, I don’t know. It felt like she was marking her territory. Jealousy bubbled in my chest, though I knew I had no right to harbor it. 

When Paris arrived home, tired and sweaty from the gym, I shoved the box containing his belongings his way. 

“Veronica stopped by.” I informed him. 

“Oh, so you’ve finally met her.” he replied, his voice excited as though I had just met Beyoncé or something.

“Yup. She’s prettier in person.”

He didn’t respond; instead he shot me a peculiar look. It wasn’t a negative expression, but rather one that seemed to hold unsaid words. There was something else he wanted to say, yet decided against. I didn’t want to pry, so instead, I made my way to the bathroom. Paris was so light on his feet, I didn’t even hear him trailing behind me. As I met my reflection in the mirror, I noticed his tall figure standing behind my small frame. 

“Can I help you?” I inquired, my curiosity piqued. He shook his head. 

“What are you doing here then?” I continued, attempting to decipher his intentions.

“Just looking,” he smirked. I’d seen him make various expressions over our months living together, but a smirk was not one of them. I held his gaze in the mirror, my cheeks flushing at the unexpected intimacy of this moment. Just as quickly as the moment began, it was over. Paris turned on his heel, his light foot-steps heading towards the kitchen. I wondered what dinner would be that night as I stared at my rosy complexion.

[smrtiepants]

Paris. 1

I like to think it started when he moved in. My residence was a desolate place before he moved in. I came and went, only really using the space as I got ready for work or went to bed. There were no photos on the walls, no cozy home decor, nothing. My apartment was merely where I came to sleep before another day of work. But that was before he came into the picture.

Honestly, for the work I do, I feel I should be paid more. Putting up with my coworkers' bullshit is no joke. However, I'm not. Due to that fact, my place was no longer affordable for me. I really hated the thought of moving out, the hassle it would be. So, I looked for a roommate. I wasn't too picky; anyone who responded to my ad, I would've said yes to. No one did for some time. That was until him.

On the day he moved in, I decided to use a sick day. I thought he could use the help. It was 11 AM on a Wednesday when he walked in through that creaky door that welcomed him into my New York apartment. Along with him came the smell of powder and vanilla. I was enthralled by him from the moment we laid eyes on eachother. I helped him with his bags as I showed him to the spare room; he didn't have many. He huffed as he sat on the old mattress. Suddenly, my apartment didn't seem so desolate.

Helping him unpack was easy; he didn't bring much with him. I couldn't help but get distracted, though. He's the type of good-looking you don't come across often. His striking looks carried an old-timey charm, reminiscent of a bygone era. I kept stealing glances at him; it was hard to resist. My eyes were trained on every minute detail—the way his shirt clung to his back as he lifted boxes, the toned muscles of his arms, even the way coils of brown hair fell on his face as he worked. Everything he did was extremely attractive, and that would definitely pose a problem.

Paris is a good cook. From the day he moved in, he made breakfast and dinner; leaving me in charge of the dishes. I had no say in the matter. At least now, the kitchen was being put to use. I hardly ever cooked, opting to eat out, usually alone. Looking back at it, that may have been the reason for my financial issues.

Over dinner in the first week he moved in, we got to talking about where we were from. My story isn't very interesting; I was born in Maine, moved to New York during college, and never left. It wasn't difficult for him to one-up me.

"I was born in Italy, summer of '97. I didn't leave till I was 16 when I moved here."

"Then why is your name Paris? You're not even from France."

"My mother is French, through and through. When she moved to Italy to be with my father, she felt as though part of her was gone. She named me Paris so she would always have a reminder of home."

Even his name had a beautiful story around it.

In our second week together, I found out he had a girlfriend. We were on the couch together, carefully selecting the perfect movie to watch on that perfect autumn night. When I thought I'd found a good one, it was quickly shut down.

"Oh, I saw that one just the other night with Veronica."

"Who?"

"My girlfriend. Could've sworn I told you. You know, she doesn't really like that my new roommate's a girl."

"Ha, I wouldn't either."

Things were good – great, even. After living in this very apartment for many years, I was finally starting to feel at home. Paris had taken it upon himself to decorate the place, gathering pictures of myself and my family along with pictures of himself and Veronica to place on the walls. Suddenly, there were plants in every corner, trinkets on the shelves, and even decorative pillows on the sofa. I would have never thought to buy those. I loved waking up to the smell of vanilla and butter and the clashing of pots and pans, courtesy of Paris. But my morning would always turn sour as I was met with Veronica's perfect face once I stepped out into the hall.

I sat at the kitchen counter, patiently waiting for whatever Chef Paris decided to prepare for breakfast. He got a call from Veronica, as he did every morning, so I pretended to be busy reading a book.

"Good morning, love. How did you sleep?"

Her response was muffled, but if I had to guess, it was something along the lines of ‘I slept well, baby’ or some cheesy shit like that.

I left before I could hear anymore, though I could occasionally hear him say "Vero, my love" and "Baby..." with that beautiful italian accent of his from the next room. It was times like these when I felt like an intruder in my own home.

That same night when I arrived home from work, I was welcomed by the smell of authentic Italian cuisine.

"Welcome, I made pasta! It's my Nonna's recipe, bless her."

"Oooo, I'm eating good tonight. Bet this used up a bunch of dishes though..."

"Oh, you know it." He winked and walked away.

I watched as his figure retreated. The sleeves of his cream henley were rolled up to his elbows, his hair was damp from his evening shower, and traces of flour could be found on his hands. I liked his hair best when it was damp, not wet, not dry. The curls were bouncy, but the smell of his shampoo was still potent and lingered in the air around him.

Every time I would think these silly thoughts, I’d turn to the wall and see Veronica's face. It's a gentle reminder that he already has someone to ponder the smell of his shampoo.

After dinner and doing the dishes, we watched a film together. It was one of those old silent films; I don't care much for them, but Paris is really into that stuff. I let myself drift closer and closer to him until I was practically leaning on him. He didn't move away.

I woke to the sound of the French doors of our balcony opening. I was still on the sofa. I looked over to find Paris having a smoke. On my tiptoes, I made my way over, slipping through the crack in the door. I was inches behind his shirtless back when I heard him speak.

"You fell asleep."

"Yeah, the movie was too quiet."

We were almost whisphering, though we had no reason too, it was just the two of us. 

"It's a silent film," he retorted.

"Whatever. Why are you here alone?"

"Needed a smoke."

"Yeah? What does 'Vero' think of this habit?" I tried my best to mimic his voice, deepening mine to better suit his as I mentioned his pet name for Veronica.

"She doesn't know." She doesn't know, huh.

"And why is that?”

“It's too late for all these questions.” He’s avoiding the topic.

“I’m sorry. Wanna watch another movie?”

He nodded his head in silent agreement, and soon we resumed the same position on the couch, my head on his bare shoulder, this time to watch a superhero movie. ‘So you don’t fall asleep’ he claimed. Again, he didn’t move.