A night in Paris

by Jess Gill | 2009

I asked him if he wanted to dance.

He bowed his head lightly, before moving closer to me on the dance floor, holding a beer in one hand. I forgot I was in four inch heels, had a sprained foot, and wore a tight dress that I would normally never wear out in daylight. The lights rotated, and we simply shuffled from side to side, my hips swaying more than his.

It didn't take long for us to sit down, for him to order me a drink and finish his own. It was on that white couch, hidden behind the word "Revolution" that we began to talk, uncover our shared history, explore what might be.

His words were accentuated with Hebrew, an accent like my grandmother's. He was from where my family was from, a fact that quickly led us into conversation.

When I took my shoes off, he announced, "I like this better. You're short now. I can use you as my armrest." I shoved him, arguing that 5'8" is not short.

His eyelashes fluttered past green eyes, translucent almost, and impressively so, like he brought the Mediterranean with him to Las Vegas.

He told me about his doctoral studies, which made me burst out, "Ah! You're a nerd!" in excitement. He asked, "What is a nerd?"

We danced from side to side, my arms around his neck as he held me close. I didn't expect him to kiss me, but then he did.

I asked him to wait, while I changed into normal clothes. When I came back out in jeans and a t-shirt, he instinctively took my hand and asked if I would be cold. "I'm from New York," I said. "Ah yes, my tough New York girl." And yet, later, when I did get cold, he gave me his jacket so I would stay warm.

Our conversation ranged from Israel to traveling to the difference between American and Israeli philosophies to science to literature to education to gender roles to religion, all within minutes. My synapses were engaged. Our fingers were intertwined.

"I'm going to take you to Paris," he told me, just before he walked me across the street into the Paris Casino. When I teased him for the terrible joke, he simply grabbed my hand and held it around his waist.

We sat in a lounge, deserted but for us, where he saluted me and I saluted him, my Israeli solider.

When I tripped on the flat sidewalk, he caught me. It was the first time someone didn't laugh at my clumsiness. Somehow, that meant so much more than I would have ever thought.

He walked me back to my hotel, back to my elevator bank, where he simply said, "Good night" with a gentle kiss.

I touched my lips back in my room, surprised by their swell.

Intensity in snatches, stolen moments, secret kisses. It's all I ever seem to know.

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