Phosphenes

Tom is talkative. Very much so. And funny. And he likes to laugh. It’s a nice laugh. A fluttery little laugh. Very sweet. Very charming. Like his face. Which is very, very handsome and absolutely impossible to pull my eyes from for more than two seconds.

“So, tell me, why are you in France? A young, pretty girl like you, traveling across the Atlantic from what was it? Missour-ehhhhh? Where is that, again?” I can’t help but laugh at Tom’s lack of knowledge in the States, and even more so, his attempt at pronouncing my home state. He laughed, too, sounding it out with me a few seconds later. “Mizz-er-eeeh.”

I wiped my mouth, left my napkin beside our now empty cups for gelato, and jumped in.

“I’m just visiting. I’ve been saving up for years now for this trip, planning it out and such. I just really love France. And I want to explore every inch of it.”

Tom was sitting across from me, his face clear but not vacant, hands resting on each other. He leaned his head slightly forward, a small smile there on his lips, before he leaned in even more.

“That’s all good and all, but…” He took one look around us, and then whispered. “I’ve always heard that the French are rude, and their government is horrible. And that Americans hated the French.”

I watched him as he spoke. Words slow, precise. He smiled politely when he was finished, shrugging his shoulders, before leaning back again. I cleared my throat.

“The rest of America can think what they want to think about France, but I myself love it. I love the people, and the language. The atmosphere. But most of all I love the land, and the architecture. Their buildings are beautiful, and their landmarks. And the beach here. And just…” I looked down. Shut up, Katelyn. I grabbed my napkin in my hands, wringing it. “I could go on. But I won’t. I would bore you.”

I was surprised when a loud burst of laughter came at me from across the small, round table. I looked up. Tom was laughing, his left hand pressed against his mouth. He simmered down some, smiling. “You won’t bore me. Honestly.”

“What are you laughing about?” I ask, confused. Yes, because I’m definitely going to continue ranting about my undying love for France when you’ve just started laughing as I barely, just barely, tipped the oar in the water of the idea.

“Nothing, nothing,” Tom said, finally removing his hand from his face. He looked up, across at me, his eyes clear. He ducked his head. “Okay, fine. It’s just… you started blushing. Like it was some secret thing. But your face was so serious and honest. I didn’t understand. It was like France was your secret lover, or something. It was funny. It was cute.”

And right then I knew that my face was turning the brightest shade of red imaginable. I took that time to look away, scanning over our surroundings. All of the other outside tables were clear of people, stemmed daisies sitting in water pitchers in the middle of each table, the leafy umbrella over our heads blowing slightly in the breeze. I took a shaky breath.

“I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” Tom said. His voice was low, even. Good God. I took one small glance in his direction just as he spoke up again, head low, eyes down. “I’m sorry, Katelyn.”

And when I looked up again, Tom was looking away, neck slightly pink. I started laughing, catching a deathly glare from him, before gathering my purse over my shoulder, picking up our trash, as we continuing our walk across the strip of pier.

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It was constant questions with Tom. What was my favorite color? What was my favorite subject in school? What are the differences between high school and secondary school, back home in the States? What are my dreams? What are my nightmares? What size bra did I wear, was I a virgin, did my mother know that I was gallivanting across the country with a foreign man who I barely knew?

Okay, I joke, but Tom does like his questions, and he likes to keep them constant. It’s how he moves from one thing to the next, with questions. It’s an endearing, clever quality, I’ve realized – he can easily turn any situation with a few words and a question mark, not having to worry about actions or talking too much, because the asker doesn’t supply answers. It’s how, slowly, on that first day we met, my second day in Cannes, I learned a tidbit of knowledge about a Mr. Tom Felton, and he learned a little about little old Katelyn from Mizz-er-eeeh.

“Well, I hope I didn’t ruin your day,” Tom said now, as we stood leaning against a bricked building, only two blocks from my hotel. It was running on nine now, the sun finally letting itself fall back into the horizon. I was tired, both from walking and talking. Tom stood in front of me, hands in his pockets. He opened his mouth to talk.

I held up my hand automatically. He raised an eyebrow, starting to talk anyway. I laughed, trying to jump ahead of me. “I had a good time, thank you, and no, you did not ruin my day. Now tell me about how I ruined yours.”

Tom ducked his head. Looked down. Scuffed his feet on the pavement. Turned his head to the sky. Laughed, and turned to me. “You didn’t ruin my day,” he said. Did you hear that? My heart fluttering? More like galloping away through a stampede of safari animals. I smiled. As did Tom.

**

It’s the day of my trip to Nice. I’m moving slower than a slug on a hot day, but I’m awake, scrubbing my face down with cleanser and rinsing, pulling clothes on and heading out the door. I wait the three floors down in the slow elevator, ignoring my face in the mirror wall opposite the sliding doors, sending one quick text to my mom back home.

The lobby is empty. I figured it would be, this early in the morning. It’s the ripe hour of six, and I know all I want to do is crawl back into bed. But I don’t, one, because it’s a half an hour train ride to Nice and I want to get my look of the city before I start exploring, and two, this hotel has as nice of mattresses as a morgue.

“Bonjour,” I say to the woman behind the counter, and she treats me just the same. I pull my key card from my pocket and hand it to her, eyeing the to-go cup of Starbucks coffee sitting just right of her elbow. She takes it, and files it for safe-keeping. Leaving my card is an option, but I’ve chosen it over keeping it now, especially since I’m going out of the city – that and the first day I decoded it by leaving it near my phone in my purse.

I wave goodbye, turning to leave, just as she calls back to me. I turned back, and she started flipping through a small notebook. I watched her, brown hair pulled back at the nape of her neck with a light pink ribbon, flowy white shirt, freckles across the nose. She’s probably somewhere around my own age. She looked up to me, still riffling, and smiled – “Excusez-moi, euh… parlez -vous Anglais?” I nod, and she sighs, looking back down to her papers. She finds what she’s looking for, holds the paper up and reads it to herself, then places it down in front of me.

“A, euh, someone called for you last night,” she started, her accent tingeing her English. I would be happy for her to speak her native tongue, but I can tell she’s trying to make up for making me wait by doing this. I smile, waiting. “We don’t pass on calls after a certain time, for the convenience of our patrons, but they were very patient and left a number for you to call back.” I thanked her, asked if I could use the phone downstairs instead of going back to my room, and then settled in a chair inside a small room off of the lobby, dialing the number. So someone called me. Late at night. At my hotel in Cannes, France.

I figure it’s someone from home whose number I don’t remember who my mom has passed my location to, considering that my midnight is their three in the afternoon. That irks me some. This is my vacation. I asked everyone to keep their contact with me to a minimum, limited to Facebook messages and relayed messages through my mom’s texts, but no – someone was calling me in an attempt to completely ruin my wonderful trip to the most beautiful place in the whole freaking world.

“Un moment,” I bite down on my lip as I hear this, brow furrowing. I lean back, repositioning my purse in my lap and check out my phone to see no response from my mom – figures, its bed time there. The voice comes back. I now realize that it’s a prerecorded voice, one of a man’s, low and smooth. “Appuyez sur l’une pur le Français, press two for English, strampa tre per…” I went ahead and clicked two. There was static, and then finally I was asked to punch in a room number, or wait for a live person to give a name. I was thankful that there was a number.

I should have pieced things together, honestly. How many people did I know staying at a hotel in Cannes? Two. One was myself.

“Hello?” His voice sounded tired. I stumbled over my hello.

“Well, well, well. Good morning, love. ‘See you’ve discovered your telephone.”

“Excuse me for choosing a hotel that knows hospitality.”

“Is that an American thing? Because, honestly, I just don’t understand. Comfortable beds, those are nice to have. Working toilets. Staff that you never see? I just…”

“Okay, fine. It’s a southern thing. Southern hospitality and such. Make everyone feel at home. So what if I might have sacrificed a real bed for a rock disguised as a mattress…”

“Can I guy not toss a joke out there?” I ran a hand down my face. Good God, I can’t do anything right. I don’t say another word; just sit with my elbow on the small desk and my face hiding in my palm. I hear Tom on the other end of the line, moving around, and then laughing, once, twice. Two chuckles. “So, uh, what’s on your agenda today?”

I open my eyes again. “Well, I was actually on my way out for the day when I got the message that I had a call. I’m going to Nice.”

It was quiet still, and I heard more movement. Quieter this time. I was about to say something, maybe ask if we had somehow lost our call, when Tom cleared his throat. “Any destination in mind?”

“Not really,” I said. “I figured I would make decisions when I got there.”

“That’s awful ballsy of you, don’t you think?” I waited a moment. “I mean, Nice is a very beautiful city, so I’ve heard. I’ve never been myself.”

I rolled my eyes. Way to lay it on. “Would you like to go?” I asked finally, when he didn’t say anything else.

“Me?” His voice was louder now. “Oh, well, I don’t want to impose, now, Katelyn. Are you sure? I don’t want to bother you.”

“You’re not going to bother me, Tom. Get ready. I plan on leaving on the six forty-five train.”

“Okay, I’ll meet you there then?”

“See you there,” I said, pulling my bag up onto the desk and dropping my phone inside, after looking at it. It was six-fifteen now.

“Sounds swell. Oh, and Katelyn?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t get kidnapped between now and the station, please.”

“I’ll try my best.”

I hung up, putting the heavy pay phone back in its cradle, and shut the door to the small office behind me. I walked back to the front desk, smiled at the girl from before, and kindly asked for my room key, thanking her again for keeping track of the phone call. She smiled back, “de rien,” and found my key, handing it back to me. I then proceeded back up to the third floor to change clothes and put a little more work into today’s appearance.