Read Online Romancing the Dark in the City of Light by Ann Jacobus - Free Book Online
Authors: Ann Jacobus
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walk home from here. I’m close.” She’s still not capable of the M é tro. She can’t help herself—she scans the crowds, half expecting to run into Kurt.
As if reading her mind, Moony asks, “What about that guy? At Les Puces?”
“Which guy?” But she knows.
“That … Arab guy.”
“At the silver stall?” He’s not Arab. Maybe it was hard to tell with Kurt’s shades on or maybe Moony’s just home-region-centric. “I don’t know him. Just ran into him once.”
“Where?”
“Out doing touristy stuff.” She doesn’t feel like sharing this info with Moony. She’s divulged too much for one day. Anyway, it’s her business.
“Think he’s following you?” Moony asks. “Don’t engage him,” he says sternly. “In any way.”
“Please. He’s not following me. It was just a coincidence.” She looks down at the sidewalk, then back up at Moony. “Don’t worry, I know my way around the block.”
FIFTEEN
Sunday afternoon, December first, Summer watches a Tibetan sky burial on YouTube while she unravels the crocheted afghan on her bed. She should be studying French and preparing for Moony’s impending visit but can’t focus on irregular verbs and political vocabulary.
The Tibetan family is bringing the bundled body to rest it on a few rocks so it’s not on the stone floor of the tower. Seated monks ring the area. Everyone sits out of the way so that the birds—vultures, actually—can do their work. Although they don’t show that part. It’s not morbid at all. Jhator is the practice of offering your body to animals as a final act of kindness. You don’t need it anymore. They get nourishment. Everybody’s happy.
The building buzzer sounds.
She startles, clicks off her computer and jogs out to the apartment door. The front entrance to the building is open during business hours, but locked at night and on weekends with a code pad. She already texted Moony the outdoor code. Once in the building, a second main door has a buzzer for each apartment and video camera for viewing visitors.
The video screen in their apartment is lit up and a black-and-white image of Moony’s face flickers there. She hesitates, then presses the intercom. “Come on up. Second floor. Only door.”
He smiles as she jabs the button that remotely opens the inside door to the elevator and stairs. She wishes she’d studied more French. He’s going to think she’s dense.
Oh, and sloppy.
She runs back to her bathroom, pulls a brush through her hair and dabs on some lip-gloss. Then she shoves a pile of folded, laundered underwear into her armoire. The front doorbell chimes. She trots out in time to see Ouaiba open the door.
“ Monsieur Moony est l à , ” Ouaiba announces with a big smile.
Moony stands inside the foyer craning his neck at the fifteen-foot ceiling, the chandelier, the gilt mirrors, and the antique French furniture.
“Hey,” she says, grinning. Her anxiousness evaporates on seeing his face. They kiss cheeks. He’s the only person she likes doing that with. It’s not a great custom as far as she’s concerned.
“Bling crib,” he says.
She gestures vaguely at the room. “Thanks to all the brave chickens. Um, come on back this way. Mom’s got a soir é e going on in the living room, best avoided. Tiptoe.” Last thing she wants to do is to expose him to Mom.
Moony has no cane today, but points to his right leg and thick shoe bottom and reminds her, “Tiptoeing’s not an option.”
“Right. My bad.”
As they walk past the open double doors to the living room, Mom calls, “Summer? Come in, darling, and say hello.” There are about seven or eight people in the huge salon, all gripping champagne flutes. A two-foot-tall cone paved with rows of beige caramel and pale pink strawberry macarons topped with icing roses sits on the coffee table.
Summer rolls her eyes and leads Moony in and introduces him to Mom. Mom holds out her hand and looks surprised when Moony offers his left to
As if reading her mind, Moony asks, “What about that guy? At Les Puces?”
“Which guy?” But she knows.
“That … Arab guy.”
“At the silver stall?” He’s not Arab. Maybe it was hard to tell with Kurt’s shades on or maybe Moony’s just home-region-centric. “I don’t know him. Just ran into him once.”
“Where?”
“Out doing touristy stuff.” She doesn’t feel like sharing this info with Moony. She’s divulged too much for one day. Anyway, it’s her business.
“Think he’s following you?” Moony asks. “Don’t engage him,” he says sternly. “In any way.”
“Please. He’s not following me. It was just a coincidence.” She looks down at the sidewalk, then back up at Moony. “Don’t worry, I know my way around the block.”
FIFTEEN
Sunday afternoon, December first, Summer watches a Tibetan sky burial on YouTube while she unravels the crocheted afghan on her bed. She should be studying French and preparing for Moony’s impending visit but can’t focus on irregular verbs and political vocabulary.
The Tibetan family is bringing the bundled body to rest it on a few rocks so it’s not on the stone floor of the tower. Seated monks ring the area. Everyone sits out of the way so that the birds—vultures, actually—can do their work. Although they don’t show that part. It’s not morbid at all. Jhator is the practice of offering your body to animals as a final act of kindness. You don’t need it anymore. They get nourishment. Everybody’s happy.
The building buzzer sounds.
She startles, clicks off her computer and jogs out to the apartment door. The front entrance to the building is open during business hours, but locked at night and on weekends with a code pad. She already texted Moony the outdoor code. Once in the building, a second main door has a buzzer for each apartment and video camera for viewing visitors.
The video screen in their apartment is lit up and a black-and-white image of Moony’s face flickers there. She hesitates, then presses the intercom. “Come on up. Second floor. Only door.”
He smiles as she jabs the button that remotely opens the inside door to the elevator and stairs. She wishes she’d studied more French. He’s going to think she’s dense.
Oh, and sloppy.
She runs back to her bathroom, pulls a brush through her hair and dabs on some lip-gloss. Then she shoves a pile of folded, laundered underwear into her armoire. The front doorbell chimes. She trots out in time to see Ouaiba open the door.
“ Monsieur Moony est l à , ” Ouaiba announces with a big smile.
Moony stands inside the foyer craning his neck at the fifteen-foot ceiling, the chandelier, the gilt mirrors, and the antique French furniture.
“Hey,” she says, grinning. Her anxiousness evaporates on seeing his face. They kiss cheeks. He’s the only person she likes doing that with. It’s not a great custom as far as she’s concerned.
“Bling crib,” he says.
She gestures vaguely at the room. “Thanks to all the brave chickens. Um, come on back this way. Mom’s got a soir é e going on in the living room, best avoided. Tiptoe.” Last thing she wants to do is to expose him to Mom.
Moony has no cane today, but points to his right leg and thick shoe bottom and reminds her, “Tiptoeing’s not an option.”
“Right. My bad.”
As they walk past the open double doors to the living room, Mom calls, “Summer? Come in, darling, and say hello.” There are about seven or eight people in the huge salon, all gripping champagne flutes. A two-foot-tall cone paved with rows of beige caramel and pale pink strawberry macarons topped with icing roses sits on the coffee table.
Summer rolls her eyes and leads Moony in and introduces him to Mom. Mom holds out her hand and looks surprised when Moony offers his left to
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