Marina Kersey's Journal

Saturday 27th September. There is only one stop sign in Paris. Everything is chaotic. People are always in a rush. The middle-aged man that sprints through the streets, meandering in and out of the way of people, cars, market stalls. Skinny latte in one hand- gripped sternly in a desperate attempt not to spill- newspaper in the other. He wears a long, beige trench coat, stiff black trousers ,and shiny black shoes. Typical, I mutter. The time reads 8.39 and, ordinarily, he is late. The older woman in the blue Renault Clio. It is not the ordinary blue of a car, more the dull blue of slate. Inside it what looks like a cactus hangs from the rear-view mirror, green and tranquil. She beeps her horn at the car ahead of her, or maybe at the seventeen others that are backed up on the narrow road, throwing her hands and rolling her eyes as if by habit. She is late for an appointment, or maybe a ladies luncheon. People are always in a rush, and buzzing through the eloquent streets of Paris. 

I chose a different spot today; I suppose I was forced to. My usual spot underneath the fourth tree from the tower was occupied by a group of teenagers, eating fries and smoking cigarettes. I decided on a spot on the other side, a marble ledge, cold to the touch and dappled with a mixture of auburn and topaz leaves. I removed the glass bottle and packet of peanuts from my bag and began scribbling in this very journal. 

I stayed there until nightfall but abandoned my journal when I saw the sunset. A sea of magenta swelled in the sky and was adorned with clouds in every shade of pink. The tower, almost reduced in size in comparison to the flamingo sky, was brought to life with the speckles of gold light that joined together to create one great glow. The city stood still to take in the scene and for once, nobody was in a rush. 

Sunday 28th September. This morning I felt restless and decided to take my weekend stroll a little earlier than usual. The paths were lined neatly with all the fallen leaves of autumn, and the rising sun cast a marmalade glaze on the world around me. There were fewer people in the park today, I suppose that was because of the early time. My spot was free, yet I felt compelled to use the empty bench on the west side of the greenery. I had taken a large cup of iced coffee and an almond loaf with me. 

To my surprise, a man came and sat down on the bench that I occupied. I was only surprised because there were three others right beside it, all empty. He was kind-looking, tall, dashing, he had dark, rugged hair. His eyes were a soft, powder blue and adorned his porcelain skin. There was a tiny beauty mark on his lip and one dimple on the right side of his cheek that only appeared when he smiled. He wore denim jeans, a sweatshirt and a checked flannel over the top. I noticed a tiny scar on his hand as he too took a small journal from his pocket and began to scribble. His hands were large, soft-looking. He sat close to me, even though the bench we were on would permit more space between us. I couldn’t help but wonder what it was he was writing so intently, I wondered if he was wondering about me too. 

We had been there several hours before a word was spoken. I wanted to speak the first word but didn’t know quite what to say. I’ve never been too good with words, or people, but something inside me was longing to talk. I’d realised that I was thinking about him too much- he was a complete stranger! But the silence between us was thick, consuming. 

I do hate the weather in Autumn, he murmured. 

I find it quite calming, I returned. 

After that we seemed to find conversation easily, we spoke casually and generally about ourselves and I asked him if he knew that Paris only has one stop sign. I learned that he is a freelance writer but struggles to find inspiration.

I have always been into writing. When I was a teenager ideas would just come to me and I would use what I knew then to create something. Now I feel I am not as creative as I used to be. 

More hours passed and I became aware that we had been here the whole day. I told him I had to leave. 

Will I see you again? he asked.

I come here every Saturday and Sunday morning, so you can decide if you will see me again, I flirted. 

I have never been good at making friends, but maybe things are about to change. Oh, I forgot to mention that he is called Cyrus Stoker.

Saturday 4th October. It would be a lie if I said I haven’t spent my week hoping to see Cyrus this weekend, maybe he will be in the park today. I’m doubtful that anything will come of it, I feel nervous to speak to him. 

I rushed out this morning and even forgot to pack something to eat. I made my way to the bench where we met last week. The autumnal leaves had already started to dry up and now crunched under every step. The sky was bleak and I decided to sketch my surroundings on a piece of scrap paper. 

As I’d hoped, Cyrus showed and we again spent the day talking about everything and anything.

So you mean to tell me that you got that scar because a twelve-year-old boy bit you? I giggled.

He tried to take the last chocolate brownie. What was I supposed to do? he replied, almost sarcastically

You’re a grown man!! 

We laughed a lot and I was becoming aware that I had started to like him. 

Anyways, we laughed and flirted until night began to fall and he asked me to watch the sunset with him. Instead, I panicked. He wasn’t a part of my usual routine and I didn’t want him to become one, so I simply told him I had to go. Why did I do that?

2.30AM. I cannot sleep, I wish I had stayed for the sunset.

Sunday 5th October. I spent all morning waiting on the bench today, but Cyrus failed to show. I am afraid that I offended him or scared him off. It’s been a while since I have found myself so concerned with someone else. 

I don’t feel like writing today. Goodnight journal.

Saturday 11th October. I saw him today! I was sitting in my old spot under the fourth tree, on my coat as the ground was cold and wet. I watched as the busy people of the city came to and fro, running here and sprinting there. I felt as though everyone had a purpose, a sense of urgency that I didn’t. Then I saw a tall figure making its way to the bench, wearing today a raincoat the colour of steel and large boots- it was Cyrus! I waited and wondered if I should go over to him and was only convinced when I noticed him looking around; he had to have been looking for me. 

Marina! He exclaimed as he removed his coat and, placing it on the rain-covered bench beside him, signalled for me to sit. 

So, have you missed me? He joked.

Why would I have missed you? I (accidentally) hissed back. I had missed him.

We talked all day again and he proudly read me a few lines of the poem he had been working on. It was about me!

You’re joking I snorted.

No. You inspired me. 

Sunday 19th October. It has been a while since I updated you, journal, but I have been so busy with Cyrus I haven’t had the time. We have spent the last two weeks learning about each other, going on strolls, watching the sunsets. I feel like a new person! I have always stuck to my weekly diary entries, much like all my other daily routines and normalities, but he makes me forget about the structure I once punished myself for failing to stick to.

Turns out he is here in Paris temporarily, although he has told me he would like to fall in love and stay forever. Until that happens he is due to leave sometime around the first week of November- so soon. I have decided that I won’t let myself fall in love with him, he will only leave ,and then where will I end up?

On Friday he took me to a vineyard, and yesterday we took a blanket and a basket of bread, grapes and the wine we had bought the previous day to sit under the stars. We giggled and fed each other grapes and he told me he saw my face in the stars. He asked me what my Star Sign was, and when I returned with Aries he told me that, he being a Scorpio, we made one of the strongest love matches of the Zodiac.

Whenever he speaks of love I seem to seize up and, instead of telling him how much I like him, I told him to stop being stupid. The stars don’t determine love. Love doesn’t exist. 

I have gotten into the habit of saying all the wrong things to Cyrus and then regretting it in this journal. I wish I could tell him how I feel but whenever I try the words just don’t come out. 

Saturday 25th October. Cyrus’ flight is the 8th. I’ve decided that today I will see him and tell him the truth. I, Marina Kersey, am in love and I won’t ruin it this time. I will tell him how I feel.

I will tell him that I want to spend every Saturday and Sunday sitting on our bench and looking into those icy, yet tender eyes. And the weekdays too. I no longer want to watch my sunsets alone and I want to carry on inspiring his art. I want to see his face in the stars. I will tell him how I want to ruin my routines to be with him. How I no longer want the structure of my old life- I want the chaos. I am ready.

Sunday 26th October. There was an unusual sun today and the park was warmer than it had been for quite some time. The bench was dry and I waited patiently for Cyrus’ arrival. 

We decided that we’d take a walk. Our hands were interlocked and we talked about the trees and how there is only one stop sign in Paris. We got some pastries from a bakery close by and strolled all around the city whilst he recited passages from his favourite novels and I listened. He talked of love and he talked of fear- feelings I know quite well. 

I had the perfect opportunity to tell him my feelings when we reached a spot on the edge of the Seine where we sat and finished the bread we had bought. He must have noticed my nervousness because I stopped talking and just stared at him instead. I took in every detail of his face: the way his cheekbones were structured, the way his dark eyebrows curved whenever he smiled, the tiny beauty mark above his lip, to the left. When he noticed my watch he started to blush and his cheeks grew a beautiful rose colour.

Have I got something in my teeth? He implored nervously.

No it’s not that.

Well what is it then?

I paused for a moment and all those things I wanted to say made my head feel swollen and I heard the sound of my own heartbeat.

I- nothing.

It’s not nothing, he laughed. Mari, (that was his nickname for me), tell me what it is. 

I began to seize again, my jaw grew stiff and my palms sweaty. I fiddled with my hands and shuffled around for a moment, unable to meet the electric eyes that stared at me. 

It doesn’t matter. 

It is now nearly 2AM and I can’t sleep. How frustrating I am for not telling Cyrus how I feel. He is leaving next week. 

Sunday 3rd November. I didn’t write yesterday because I felt too annoyed to put things into words. Cyrus and I decided to go for a picnic in the park and he gave me a gift. It was another poem, this time framed and titled with the note: For Mari, the girl I love. 

Cyrus told me something more personal today, his mother passed away in August and his father left him soon after. He came to Paris to get away and, like most do, to fall in love. I held his hand, tracing his scar with my thumb and consoling him. He kissed me and I saw in his eyes that he begged for me to tell him I loved him back. But I didn’t. 

My feelings for Cyrus overwhelmed me, yet I couldn’t make enough sense of them to put them into words. 

When is your flight? I asked, even though I already knew it was in five days’ time. 

A look of pain seemed to fall upon his face as he answered. The 8th. 

We looked at each other for a silent moment and I wanted to tell him that I loved him. Something inside me was screaming and bursting to talk, but my mouth remained closed.

Friday 8th November. I went with Cyrus to the airport to say goodbye, but hoping that I would build up the courage to tell him to stay. I spent the journey staring out of the window, watching as the rain attacked the car, still not saying a word. The howling wind cackled and taunted me. Stupid girl, it said. 

When we arrived at the gate Cyrus kissed me and told me he loved me, I let out a painful smile and simply remained silent. 

I watched as he walked away forever. He was wearing the checked flannel he wore the first time I met him and I tried to call his name. The words didn’t come out. A sheet of glass came over my eyes and my vision became blurred. I blinked and a trail of salty tears ran down my face.

There is only one stop sign in Paris. Everything is always chaotic. People are always in a rush. I hadn’t understood the feeling of urgency- the intense, all-consuming desperation to be somewhere else, with someone else- before I met Cyrus. I was indifferent to those around me who had a purpose. But today I let my purpose get on a plane and leave, and now I am indifferent once again.