The first night in Paris

Talking to the man in the bar and falling in love with the idea of an ordinary extraordinary life.

We went to a bar and an old man turned to tell us about the good chardonnay.

The barman, much younger, chirped up - he’s not wrong - so we ordered a bottle, 3 glasses.

I noticed him clutching a white cane. His eyes were closed and sunken, his English was 2% away from perfect. “You’re from London” he smiled, and we got talking about his two years in Yorkshire studying his Masters.

I asked him why he moved back to Paris. There was a pause. I filled it with “Was there a girl?”

He laughed, “There was a girl that was no longer”

I said we always move with our hearts.

I asked him about his jobs because thats always my second question after who people have fallen in love with and he said he was a statistician for the government. I wondered what his pivotal moment was in his career and he said I asked good questions. I said I was a writer and it came with the job and he told me a park to go to so that the words can come.

“I’ll sit there and think”

“You don’t need to think to write” He had this way of talking through the lines in face, as though his impaired vision made his expressions bolder. As though he could see me through them instead.

Anyway. His job.

He told me about how interesting it was during the collapse of the Soviet Union and his time figuring it all out between 1990 to ’95. He said he made this discovery and although he wasn’t part of History, he was on the balcony watching it.

I could’ve talked to him all night. And maybe if the wine never dried up and we didn’t have a dinner reservation I would’ve.

I thanked him for helping me learn and educating me. He said I didn’t teach you anything, I was only telling you about my life.

There were so many pauses between his words that I tried so desperately to fill with my social anxiety and excitement in the beginning, but as time went on I trusted it all and fell into the pit of them. Full of sincerity, of consideration. Compassion.

He coughed a lot and his shaking rippled hand tried to cover his mouth - all I could think of was I really didn’t want this one to die. Don’t people with stories like this live forever?