Her Future is with Him All Right

The only thing more depressing than a European winter’s night is a European winter’s night when you’ve just had your heart slaughtered. But the gray Luxembourg trainyard I knew so well somehow had a touch of hope in it now, as I settled myself for my last ride back to Paris. Love and work and school had all kicked me in the rear end within a few weeks of each other. But I was warm and mostly dry in the crowded, brightly lit train, and I found real enjoyment in my long last look at the rainy January twilight out there.

Years later, I’d be able to smile or even laugh when I told people I had two wonderful memories of Luxembourg: the day I moved in, and the day I moved out. “Wonderful” is not how I would have put it when I got on the train that night. I wish I’d known what I was in for just a few hours later, as I really could have used it. It had been raining for hours already before I arrived at the train station, having just finished cleaning out my flat and then returned the keys to the realtor. I was feeling rather proud of having explained to the taxi driver – in French – that I needed him to take me to the real estate office first and then the train station. If nothing else, those six months had helped a lot with my French. Once I got to the station, there was time for a sandwich and a beer for dinner, as well as far too much time to ponder the past six months in the little country with the big name.

A failed internship here and a failed course back in Paris were bad enough, but they weren’t the end of the world. A lost love whom I’d only spent one hot week with…well, my head knew it was just as well, but my heart didn’t. Not yet. It had been two long, dreary months since the night I’d learned that week would be all I’d ever get. As I gazed up at the clock at the far end of the station, I wondered if she was in her boss’ arms – or even in his bed – right now. “We’re keeping it quiet until his divorce is final,” she’d said. Who knew or cared what that meant?

Luxembourg City is a fairly small city, and my beloved studio flat had only been a few blocks from her place. At least in those two months I’d never run into her with her boss. That was another little victory I could cherish as I picked up my suitcase and got on the train. Safe to assume it would stay that way, as I had no plans to ever return here!

As the TGV – Train à Grande Vitesse – “Very Fast Train” – jolted forward and the drenched twilight began speeding past, I finally allowed myself to think about her. It likely wouldn’t have worked anyway, and someday it would be a beautifully bittersweet memory, like a dream where you woke up at just the wrong time. And after all, it had only been one week.

One very sultry, unbelievably romantic week.

We’d met online, on a personals site I’d forgotten I’d even joined – something about another guy contacting her and she wasn’t interested, but she saw my profile below his. Only now did it occur to me she might have made that up. But that didn’t matter. What mattered was, she had met me at a neighborhood bar in a lovely black dress, and if “I quit my internship” wasn’t the best opening line I’ve ever offered up, she was impressed with my honesty about the situation. A drink led to dinner up the block at a dimly lit restaurant that seemed designed for the perfect first date. I didn’t remember much about the conversation, but it had included an invitation to join her for a swim at the local indoor pool. Just the perfect dose of intimacy to top off the best first date of my life.

That was Monday - a rainy night like this one, but it had only added to the ambiance as far as I was concerned. The very next night – Tuesday – found us at a movie together. She wore jeans for the occasion, but from my vantage point next to her at the theatre, those jeans highlighted her elegant curves perfectly. My mind wandered but we both kept our hands to ourselves, both in the theatre and at the bar afterward where we went for a drink. That was where she fired the warning shot that I really should have listened to: “I had an affair with my boss last year, and he just told me today that he’s getting divorced. I don’t know what I’m going to do. I want to keep seeing you, but we should take it slow.”

I always take it slow, and I had my own story to share about a fling with a married colleague years ago back in DC. Joanne…I hadn’t even thought of her in ages, and that night as the train crossed into France, I hoped her husband had never found out. I hoped they were still together and still happy, for I’d hate to think I was responsible for making anyone feel the way I’d been feeling.

At least now the train wasn’t taking it slow. It was just about totally dark outside, but the rain whizzing by on the glass was a pleasant reminder that I was safe inside and leaving my past at great speed.

But the past wasn’t quite leaving me yet. “We should take it slow…” So easy to say, so hard to do when you’re head over heels, even for someone you’d never met a week ago. Harder still to accept that the one you’re so crazy for would do something so stupid.

And so of course I hadn’t accepted it by Saturday, when we met up for brunch.

My reminiscing stopped cold at the advent of Saturday, and I thought of going over to the dining car for a glass of wine. I decided against it and curled up in my seat, and told myself someday that Saturday would be a nice memory. With that resolution, I let myself remember the sensation of our arms around one another’s back on the walk through the crowded centre ville, not even trying to hide my patented endearing shyness.

“Would you rather I not touch you?”

“No, I like it!” And with that, she pulled me closer. Nothing like being able to ask a dumb question like that and get a polite reply!

The bar we ended up at in the Old City was itself rather old and dingy, but I hardly cared about that. What I did care about was the balcony across the path from the pub. After we’d finished eating, she led me out there and showed me a dazzling view of the Old City.

It was beautiful, but not as beautiful as she was. After admiring the view, I turned and looked in her eyes with a smile. I opened my arms just as instinctively as one might choose to draw breath. It wasn’t really a choice! A few kisses on the cheek, then a long, deeply satisfying smooch.

She spoke first. “You deserve a kiss, being so nice.”

“You deserve a kiss full-stop,” I said, still holding her.

“That’s what I meant.”

I didn’t hate her in retrospect, far from it. Right after that most romantic moment of my life, she’d had the honesty to remind me she still didn’t know how things would work out. I accepted that, but of course I was certain in that moment that she would choose me. How could she not in that moment?

How indeed? Edith Piaf said it best: Dans l’amour, il faut des larmes. And oh, how there were.

I had to go to Paris that Monday for a class, and I had just arrived back on Tuesday when she called and dropped the bomb. I only remembered five words: “My future is with him.”

That was another reason why I didn’t hate her: the moment she said that, I knew it was only a matter of time until she ended up just as hurt as I was in that awful moment. He’d cheated with her, he would surely cheat on her, and she couldn’t even see it coming!

That hadn’t helped in the heat of the moment. Neither had Casablanca and a bottle of merlot. I'm not sure if I slept for a week. But I’d repeated it to myself every day in those two months, and that night on the train I repeated it to myself again. I managed a smile now as I thought of it…My future is with him. Undoubtedly true. Maybe not with that particular “him”, but in a way she was right.

I had one class left to take back in Paris, and I’d found a lovely pre-war flat sublet by a woman who was going to Cameroon for a few months to visit relatives. When the train pulled into the Gare de l’Est, the rain was pouring harder than ever. Getting a taxi in Paris is like winning the lottery even in good weather. So when I got one that night with almost no wait, I felt perfectly safe in imagining it was the first sign that my luck was finally changing. It was a pretty long drive through the city to my flat down near the Porte de Vincennes, but it didn’t feel that way now that Luxembourg was in the rearview mirror to stay.

I hadn’t felt contentment in two months. That night, after a long shower, when I turned out the light and drifted off to sleep, alone but safe and warm in my bed with the sound of rain on the rooftops of Paris outside – for the first time in months, I felt contentment. There was no knowing what was next, but the past was over and that was enough.