I look at my watch. Still no sign of him. I pull my knees
closer to my chest and huddle against the wall looking for some protection from
the cold. April in Paris can be surprisingly cold. Much colder than London. He
said one forty. It’s now two.
A man in a black jacket jumps up on to the wall. Is it
him? I wonder. Should I say something? He does not look at me. Perhaps this is
a popular meeting spot. After all I do not know Paris. I am sure that I would
recognise Pierre. How could I not? After our endless conversations, late into
the night, I feel I know him like the back
of my hand.
 |
| The wait is long, my dream of you never ends. ~ Nuala O'Faolain |
As time passes I begin to wonder if Pierre is in fact the
man sitting beside me but his face is turned. I whisper his name but he does
not turn. Surely he would have
recognised me by now. I take out my phone and read the last email exchange
between us. I can’t help but blush. Yes I see that I have the time and the
place right. But my heart starts to
sink– perhaps he will not come after all.
*
I have waited so long for this moment. To finally be able
to meet Sarah, the woman of my dreams. I wonder if she will look the same as in
her pictures? We agreed one forty but
she is not here yet. I hope she has not gotten cold feet. Perhaps I should have
eaten first, my stomach reminds me that it is past my usual lunch time. But I
wanted to show her Chez Michel, quite possibly the most romantic restaurant in
the ninth arrondissement.
I look at my watch again and then over at the woman
sitting next to me, or should I say teenager. She looks to be at that awkward
age, she has not even learned how to sit yet.
Another half hour passes and I begin to wonder who the
young girl is waiting for. A horrifying thought crosses my mind but I dismiss
it fast enough. Instead I take my
mobile phone out of my pocket and dial her
number.
About the photo: Its been taken across the road from the Notre Dame, two strangers lost in their own world.
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