I have no idea what Ansel is planning, but I’m ready to find out.
THE CENTRE POMPIDOU is easy to find. Thanks to Google, I know it’s centered on Paris’s Right Bank, and sits in an area known as the Beaubourg neighborhood. After my days of exploring, I have a pretty good sense of where I am. But although I saw a photo of the museum online, I’m in no way prepared for the monstrous, skeletal curiosity that seems to rise up from the city around it.
It’s as if the massive building has been stripped of its outer layers, revealing the very pieces that keep it erect just underneath. Brightly colored tubes in green, blue, yellow, and red are interspersed with metal beams, and look as much like a piece of art as the items housed inside.
I follow a sign that leads me to a large paved plaza, filled with students and families and groups of tourists strolling about. Performers sit surrounded by small crowds and children rush by, their laughter echoing in the hulking empty spaces created by the enormous building.
Just as Ansel instructed, I take the largest escalators I’ve ever seen to the top floor. The entire ride up is encapsulated in Plexiglas tunnels, giving me a view of an enormous expanse of Paris, with buildings in the distance I’ve only ever seen in books. I spot the Eiffel Tower immediately, set against a backdrop of bright blue sky.
My reflection winks back at me, dressed in my simple jersey shift dress, my dark hair glossy in the late afternoon sun. My face is flushed with anticipation and I’m pushing away the tremor of anxiety that I have no idea what is happening, and I’ve left Ansel completely in charge. Am I still his maid? I pause, mid-step between one escalator and the next, as the possibility sinks in. Our balance of power is already skewed since we arrived here. What am I heading into?
But, I reason, when you let go last night, he took over and gave you the most intensely erotic night of your life. Trust him.
With a deep breath, I step off at the top and make my way into the trendy restaurant. A beautiful woman with tomato-red hair and a short white dress leads me through a space that looks more like a sci-fi movie set than a place to have dinner. Everything is brushed metal and gleaming white, steel beams and polished cavelike sculptures. The tables are sleek and industrial, each one topped with a ruby-red long-stemmed rose. The outdoor dining area is protected by low-slung glass so as not to hinder the view because wow . . . what a view it is.
I thank her and take a seat at the bar, checking my phone for any messages. I’ve just begun a text to Ansel when I feel a slight tap on my shoulder.
“Would you mind if I sat here?” he asks, nervous. And oh. This isn’t the same game as last night. The confusion must show in my expression because he continues, “Unless you’re waiting for someone, of course.”
Strangers. This I can do. This we know.
“No. Um . . . not at all. Be my guest,” I say, and gesture to the seat on my right.
Ansel folds all six feet, two inches of his frame onto the brushed aluminum stool and toys with the neatly folded cloth napkin. I didn’t get to fully drink in the sight of him before he left this morning, and try to covertly check him out as he fidgets, playing this new role.
He’s wearing a shirt I’ve never seen on him, deep green with a pattern so delicate I have to peer closely to even make it out. His black dress pants fit him perfectly; there’s a touch of stubble lining his jaw and his hair seems a bit more disheveled than normal, falling forward over his forehead. I have the sudden desire to twist my fingers in it while I pull his face between my legs.
I actually have to look away to catch my breath. This guy is my husband.
You look amazing, I want to say.
How did I find someone so easy and perfect in Las Vegas of all places? I want to ask.
But instead, I stay quiet and let him show me how this night is supposed to go.
“I think I was stood up,” he says, and now that I’ve composed myself, I turn back to face him.
“That’s terrible. They didn’t call or text?”
He shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair, righting it again. “It’s probably for the best,” he says with a resolute lift of his chin. “I don’t think we are that compatible anyway.”
I angle myself toward him. “Was this supposed to be the first date?”
He shakes his head and opens his mouth to speak, pausing when the bartender stops in front of us. “Un whisky-soda, s’il vous plaît,” he says to the man before turning to me expectantly.
“Um . . . gin et . . . tonic?” I phrase it as a question and the bartender smirks before walking away.
Ansel gives a lingering stare to the bartender’s back, then clears his throat before continuing. “We’ve been together for a while but—” He stops abruptly, shaking his head. He leans closer, dropping his voice when he says, “No, ignore that. I don’t want to pretend to cheat.”