Undeserving of Love

Nora knew not to seek refuge in others, and yet this stranger—we’ll call him Louis—provided some kind of solace lying there beside her, shoulder to shoulder, each of them with their arms wrapped around a blue pillow.

She was happy to lie here in his company, in his bed, for there was no family to hold her, no friends, no partner, and the only semblance of love she’d ever found was in the arms of men with ulterior motives; and so, she willingly mistook mud for chocolate, weeds for flowers, and blood for wine.

But this time, she mightn’t have to. Louis, still very much a stranger, seemed genuinely fine with just her company, her conversation, her kisses.

Sorry, she’d said an hour earlier, when she hadn’t wanted to take it further.

Don’t apologise for that; not to me, nor to anyone.

And now he lay there—safe, sensible, sweet—fidgeting with a plush toy from his childhood.

“The green Power Ranger was your favourite, then?” asked Nora.

“Yeah, and the red, but it’s in the home I grew up in. Whenever I visit my parents, it’s there on the desk in my bedroom.”

Nora studied his cheek squashed against the pillow, the asymmetrical pout of his squished lip, the silver scar across his stubble.

I was glassed in Uruguay, he’d explained.

“What about you?”

“My parents rented out my childhood home,” said Nora, “but I’m always home; I’m at home in my own skin.”

He leant over and kissed her shoulder, withdrew and waited attentively.

“I do have a monkey, though. His name’s Monkey.” He was in a bag in a box in a garage somewhere.

“How original,” smiled Louis.

“I was three.”

“That’s no excuse, Nora.”

She liked how much he used her name. It felt familiar; he felt familiar.

“Well, I named him that ironically,” she said, and feigned a sip of wine.

“My, my, what a clever three-year-old,” said Louis, adjusting an imaginary pair of glasses.

“Exactly.”

Louis kissed her nose, her forehead, and then gathered her up in his embrace.

She didn’t deserve his affection and was unsettled by him dishing it out so readily; and yet she savoured it, she savoured this foreign familiarity, this sweet semblance of love.

***

Nora had just removed her jewellery, and a large, clean T-shirt awaited her on Louis’ desk chair.

“By the way, we have to get up at nine.”

It was already five.

“I think I might go home, then,” said Nora, and she put her earrings back in, her rings, her necklaces. He should have told her earlier; had she known, she wouldn’t have come.

“At least take an umbrella,” he said, rummaging through his wardrobe.

“It’s fine, it’s just sprinkling.” Not that she knew; she hadn’t even known it was raining.

She snubbed the green umbrella in his open hands, and slung her bag over her shoulder.

Louis followed her down the hall and into the stairwell, barefoot and shirtless.

“Good night,” smiled Nora, already descending the stairs. “This handrail needs painting.”

“What about a kiss?” asked Louis, his bare chest glowing yellow beneath the dim light.

“Oh, right!” said Nora, ascending the stairs. She dodged a kiss on the lips, and kissed both his cheeks. “Good night!”

She squinted as the rain hit her face. Asshole. She’d heard him close the door before she’d reached the street. Where was she? She turned a corner, and in the distance was La Place de La Comédie. How convenient, it was no wonder he’d chosen to meet there.

Nora revelled in the rain on her face; it might cleanse her of those foreign lips, those foreign hands, that sickening sweetness of a stranger. She’d done nothing to deserve all that affection.

And why would she have wanted his umbrella? She wouldn’t grant him that nobility, that deep sleep, while she dodged puddles on the street in short shorts, a tank top, and a chin reddened by his stubble. It would have been noble to have told her in advance, to grant her an informed decision. At least now she wouldn’t be obliged to see him again. She’d walk in the rain; she’d already walked a lifetime in the rain, and there was no shoddy umbrella binding her to anyone.

Men did that; they exploited the principle of reciprocity. They gave her stupid trinkets and put their own cheap rings on her fingers, only to forget about them and later demand another date. Tying their five-dollar bracelets around her wrists like cuffs would guarantee seeing her again; and when they explained that these bits of string held sentimental value, she’d groan and capitulate, granting them that slimy second date.

“Mais t’es toute seule.” A crow’s black beady eyes met hers for an instant.

Nora shot her head down—the wet cobblestones stretched out like a glittering game of Tetris—for she’d already learned that her safety was contingent on silence, that a reaction meant game over. Surely Louis knew, too, as he kissed her goodbye, shut the door, and returned to bed; he knew she’d not only be dodging puddles, but also the unwelcome advances of grimy men. He lived here, after all; he couldn’t claim ignorance.

Nora was careful not to slip as she entered the plaza, the red neon lights of the Gaumont cinema glowing on the wet tiles.

The principle of reciprocity also applied to drinks; a beer was never just a beer. She had her own money, she’d buy her own, but after rejecting a man’s offer five consecutive times, she’d still find herself with a free pint in her hands that felt more like an obligation than a favour. She’d be twisted into reciprocity, for she now owed them something: her company, a smile, tolerance of their misogynistic compliments, laughter at their crass humour, the stroking of their fragile ego.

Nora turned up another cobblestoned street. She was right to have refused the umbrella, despite her damp hair, clothes, skin.

“T’es très belle.”

Nora’s spine crawled. It was another slimy eel with blank eyes and a cavernous smile, pointed teeth like stalactite. She stared into the Tetris blocks glimmering beneath the streetlights; they piled up and up and up, and home felt farther and farther and farther away: somewhere far beyond this infinite street.

She thought of Louis an instant, in bed and fast asleep; but she also thought of his semi nudity in the stairwell, the surprise on his face.

A light in the distance. A small bakery. It got closer, closer, closer like an approaching lantern, an approaching lifeboat in this dark sea of creatures. Its warm, orange light pooled into the wet street, and as Nora crossed the glowing cobblestones, she peered in at a white coat and toque blanche leant over a silver surface and balls of dough. This little glimpse of life made her feel a little safer.

Louis had seemed so genuine, but Nora had long been surrounded by the disingenuous. And perhaps this is why she’d felt the need to find fault somewhere, to spare herself the disappointment? not that she had any hopes to disappoint; she was already hopeless and disappointed, already disillusioned and world-weary.

She turned onto the darkest road, the streetlight flickering, a moth fluttering. Zap.

Maybe she’d found Louis’ kindness disarming and she felt insecure if unarmed. When she self-destructed—say, via hedonism—she could at least feign strength; but that was hard to do when honest and open, when vulnerable, when restored to a child, wide-eyed and filled with wonder.

To be vulnerable was scary. There was no family to hold her, no friends, no partner. The only semblance of love she’d ever found was in the arms of men with ulterior motives; and now, in the name of self-preservation, she willingly mistook chocolate for mud, flowers for weeds, and wine for blood. It was, after all, familiar.

Nora prodded for the keyhole in the darkness, and the door clicked open; she was home—safe, sensible, sweet—and the sun would rise as she fell asleep.