I was riding the G train home to Brooklyn one night after another temp job I did to get me through the separation. The dark ages.
This particular night, I was reading "All the Light We Cannot" see (fantastic book by the way) and I felt a strong energy coming from the gentleman to my right. We'd made eye contact when I'd first boarded the train and squished next to one another in the harem that is New York subways - always more women than men. He was tall, had soft brown hair, Warby Parker glasses on and was reading too. It looked like a script of some sort. We stayed silent for the first portion of the ride but the energy between us was all too obvious as we would catch glimpses of each other out of the corner of our eyes, both peeking with curiosity at the creature beside us.
I didn't know he was French until we finally started speaking about our reading material. I told him my book was set in France, but that i'd never been. He looked me in the eyes. We both blinked as we searched the iris of the other for more. Connection. Collision. He made me smile. I'd always secretly had a fantasy about meeting a French man in New York. His name was Carl and he was in an acting class and learning his lines before performing that night. It was sweet listening to him as I could tell this acting class was a search for himself.
His kindness towards me was palpable. So much so that when my stop came, I extended my card professionally although based on our conversations I had no reason to - it was the urgency of departing that made me do something slightly foolish, but hopefully not too desperate. You feel so vulnerable and exposed when your personal life is falling apart. Sometimes the smallest human connections can be magnified because of neglect. He texted me a week later. No, he Whatsapp'd me (the number one app for indiscretions). We arranged to have wine at the french restaurant we both loved in our neighborhood, Cafe Paulette. I was my usual 15 minutes late as I rode the Citi Bike there, as we were in the last of the comfortable fall days. He'd ordered the most incredible red wine to have with our charcuterie and described it to me in depth. He worked for Moet Hennessy and couldn't help it. The sexiness of champagne and wine was just in his blood.
We talked and talked. Drank and drank. He told me he was also in an unhappy marriage. His wife a designer and they had a very young daughter. He was lonely too and unseen. After an hour or so, he looked me in the eyes and said, "What are we doing here?" I tried to avoid the question. Not sure why, but it seemed safer. "You and me....what are we doing here....tonight...from here?" When I'd started to talk about my situation the brokenness was obvious and he told me to stand up. Nervously I did and he came over and put his arms around me and just held me. I could have crumbled into a thousand pieces. It was the first time I'd been touched in months and my body weakened. Then he cupped my face and kissed me with the softest, most tender touch I've ever known. Tears slipped down my face silently. I felt a rush in my body. We both knew our homes were walking distance. It was getting colder and later. We walked down Dekalb. He was starting to get more turned on and I could feel it. Quite literally. It was like a blood transfusion to my system, feeling desired again, and wanted. The throbbing in both of us was incredibly strong. We shared the same wounds of rejection. Somehow it bonded us and we were at my front door within minutes.
He came inside. Undressed me. Kissed me everywhere. He was so attentive and available emotionally and physically. Europeans seem to like being down there longer than Americans. We drank one another in and then rested on the couch. I walked over to the piano and played the theme from one of my favorite movies, Amelie. He knew it well. We smoked a cigarette on the back porch. Kissed again and talked about life. Smoking seems to bring out that type of conversation somehow. Pensive and contemplative wisdom brought on by the indiscretion of one another. We said good night and he Uber'd home. I told him he could stay, but we both knew he couldn't. We didn't have sex. He couldn't do that either. I think the experience of acting out was sobering to him. I think he saw what he could lose and somehow, because of it, what he had seemed sweeter again. Funny how losing something quietly can save you from losing it forever.
He forgot his scarf. I remember how good it smelled. Like sandalwood and musk. I saw him once more to give it back. He was more guarded the second time we saw each other. I understood, but that's the part about lovers in New York that sucks. The fickleness will drive you mad if you let it. The last time I saw him was near a subway stop in the Meatpacking District. We were both walking the same way and fell in long strides together, I touched his elbow. As I did, he stopped and turned his whole body to me. Open. Honest. He asked how my estranged husband (he remembered his name) and I were doing. Not good, I shrugged. The care I saw in his eyes showed me his question was genuine. But he chose his family. And I never blamed him for it. I understood. We hugged and parted. I went to my photo shoot with Huffington Post and he was off to the office around the corner. I never saw him again, however....I got an email from a client named "Mathilde" a few months later asking for me to provide hair and makeup. It never worked out but I knew it wouldn't. It couldn't. However, her clothing line is booming and their daughter is beautiful. These things happen all the time in New York. The feast and famine of marriages and success. Yet somehow, that night was enough. It always will be.