Raining in Paris.
Raining in Paris.
With a sigh, I turn on my side for about the dozenth time. The beds weren’t uncomfortable here, but they just weren’t my bed.
Unable to sleep, I slip on my converse and a leather jacket before sneaking out of my hotel room. I wasn’t sure exactly why it felt like I was "sneaking out." We were all rooming together, but I had the right to come and go as I pleased, didn’t I?
Maybe I just wanted to escape my life for a little while and pretend I was someone with no responsibilities. To imagine myself as someone other than John O’ Callaghan, someone that wasn’t the lead singer of a band with a tightly-knit fanbase. After all, when else would I get the opportunity to see Champs-Elysees by night?
The trees that lined the streets were adorned with Christmas lights, even though it was mid April. The seasons in Europe weren’t that far off from the ones back in the states, so the weather was quite pleasant, aside from the moist air. I spot the lit up carousel and started aimlessly walking towards it. Not like I have anywhere to go.
I fix my beanie onto my head before stuffing my hands into my jacket pockets. It was astounding to think that the streets were so narrow in such a big city.
My train of thought is cut off by the drop of rain that lands on my cheek, the first signs of April showers. instead of walking back to the hotel, I keep going, staring at all of the buildings and the small shops that lined the sidewalks. Only a few places were actually open this late, including what seemed to be a small coffee shop that I could see from afar. With just the next step on the pavement, the atmosphere changed and I’m walking another street, one that went by the name of Memory Lane.
The rain subsides in my mind as I keep walking. The cold was less frigid, and I could almost feel the soft sunlight hitting my face. The trees here were bare, stripped of its leaves. Typical Arizona winter.
It was strange, a part of me standing outside in the rain looking in through this window while the other part was reliving that day, looking into a total other coffee shop somewhere off in Arizona. I didn’t think it was possible to remember myself remembering. It was an odd kind of inception.
Needless to say, the nostalgia and deja vu I felt standing here was immense.
I remembered and felt it all too clearly. Looking through that Arizona coffee shop window and looking at the table we’d always sit down by. Like a flashback from a movie, I could see the both of us sitting down, laughing as we sipped from our drinks. She’d always get hot chocolate and I’d get regular coffee. Her smile warmed me more than my beverage ever did, sending my heart into a frenzy. She looked beautiful every time we met up, with her long dark brown hair loosely curled and her bangs falling over her eyes. She’d blow them out of the way before bringing the cup to her lips, and I’d always smile and stare at her, hypnotized by her beauty. Whenever she met my gaze, I’d avert my eyes and shake my head. That’s when she would smile and brush her leg against mine, twining our ankles together beneath the table. I would reach out to take her hand and let the ability to touch her comfort me. It was the greatest assurance I’d ever known.
The image fades slowly before me, careful as to not to shatter all at once. I don’t think I could take the memory being snatched away.
Another picture forms, except in this one I sit alone. My eyes are cast downward, staring into my cup as if I’d find the solution to whatever problem was weighing me down swirling around in my dark coffee. The bell above the door rings as she walks right past me without even a glance in my direction. I see my own eyebrows furrow, but the frown on my face indicated only one thing.
I’d lost her.
The scene fades out again, and this time the man peering in through the window steps inside the small shop. I was the only one left standing outside on the rainy sidewalk in Paris. In there, it wasn’t a cafe. It was the coffee shop in Arizona. I wanted to go in there with him, to warn him, but something kept me glued to the ground, forced to watch.
Determined to get her back, I’d walked into that shop and set up a stool, guitar ready in my lap. Even during the days we weren’t together, she still went there everyday, whether I was there or not. I knew she’d be here. And she’d hear my song about her. She’d hear how sorry I was I ever hurt her.
That was when she froze by the door, and the other man by her side looped an arm around her waist, asking what was wrong.
She’d moved on.
Her eyes soften for a moment before looking away. The memory finally shatters, and I’m left staring at what was left of me.
He exits, slipping back inside my body. The leaves finally return to the trees and it was lovely nighttime once again. I was back in Paris. Now when I viewed the window, the inside was back to its original form. A man with a trench coat was buying pastries and sipping from his coffee as he thanked the young girl behind the counter.
It finally hits me that I’m drenched, realizing I’ve been out in the rain this entire time. Indifferent, I continue my stroll through Paris, deciding that I’d return to the hotel once I saw the ferris wheel up close.
I come across a man selling umbrellas under a small tent. The sign said “cinq” so I handed over a regular five dollar bill, hoping he’d accept it even though it wasn’t the French currency. He nods gratefully and hands me an umbrella. “Merci,” I tell him and open it up, now sheltered from the rain. I set off on my midnight journey, pushing any thoughts from before out of my mind. I didn’t want to think about heartbreak.
The sound of passing cars and soft pitter patter of the raindrops as they fell over everything quietly was almost as comforting and assuring as when I used to be able to hold her hand.
I think I like being alone.
Unable to sleep, I slip on my converse and a leather jacket before sneaking out of my hotel room. I wasn’t sure exactly why it felt like I was "sneaking out." We were all rooming together, but I had the right to come and go as I pleased, didn’t I?
Maybe I just wanted to escape my life for a little while and pretend I was someone with no responsibilities. To imagine myself as someone other than John O’ Callaghan, someone that wasn’t the lead singer of a band with a tightly-knit fanbase. After all, when else would I get the opportunity to see Champs-Elysees by night?
The trees that lined the streets were adorned with Christmas lights, even though it was mid April. The seasons in Europe weren’t that far off from the ones back in the states, so the weather was quite pleasant, aside from the moist air. I spot the lit up carousel and started aimlessly walking towards it. Not like I have anywhere to go.
I fix my beanie onto my head before stuffing my hands into my jacket pockets. It was astounding to think that the streets were so narrow in such a big city.
My train of thought is cut off by the drop of rain that lands on my cheek, the first signs of April showers. instead of walking back to the hotel, I keep going, staring at all of the buildings and the small shops that lined the sidewalks. Only a few places were actually open this late, including what seemed to be a small coffee shop that I could see from afar. With just the next step on the pavement, the atmosphere changed and I’m walking another street, one that went by the name of Memory Lane.
The rain subsides in my mind as I keep walking. The cold was less frigid, and I could almost feel the soft sunlight hitting my face. The trees here were bare, stripped of its leaves. Typical Arizona winter.
It was strange, a part of me standing outside in the rain looking in through this window while the other part was reliving that day, looking into a total other coffee shop somewhere off in Arizona. I didn’t think it was possible to remember myself remembering. It was an odd kind of inception.
Needless to say, the nostalgia and deja vu I felt standing here was immense.
I remembered and felt it all too clearly. Looking through that Arizona coffee shop window and looking at the table we’d always sit down by. Like a flashback from a movie, I could see the both of us sitting down, laughing as we sipped from our drinks. She’d always get hot chocolate and I’d get regular coffee. Her smile warmed me more than my beverage ever did, sending my heart into a frenzy. She looked beautiful every time we met up, with her long dark brown hair loosely curled and her bangs falling over her eyes. She’d blow them out of the way before bringing the cup to her lips, and I’d always smile and stare at her, hypnotized by her beauty. Whenever she met my gaze, I’d avert my eyes and shake my head. That’s when she would smile and brush her leg against mine, twining our ankles together beneath the table. I would reach out to take her hand and let the ability to touch her comfort me. It was the greatest assurance I’d ever known.
The image fades slowly before me, careful as to not to shatter all at once. I don’t think I could take the memory being snatched away.
Another picture forms, except in this one I sit alone. My eyes are cast downward, staring into my cup as if I’d find the solution to whatever problem was weighing me down swirling around in my dark coffee. The bell above the door rings as she walks right past me without even a glance in my direction. I see my own eyebrows furrow, but the frown on my face indicated only one thing.
I’d lost her.
The scene fades out again, and this time the man peering in through the window steps inside the small shop. I was the only one left standing outside on the rainy sidewalk in Paris. In there, it wasn’t a cafe. It was the coffee shop in Arizona. I wanted to go in there with him, to warn him, but something kept me glued to the ground, forced to watch.
Determined to get her back, I’d walked into that shop and set up a stool, guitar ready in my lap. Even during the days we weren’t together, she still went there everyday, whether I was there or not. I knew she’d be here. And she’d hear my song about her. She’d hear how sorry I was I ever hurt her.
That was when she froze by the door, and the other man by her side looped an arm around her waist, asking what was wrong.
She’d moved on.
Her eyes soften for a moment before looking away. The memory finally shatters, and I’m left staring at what was left of me.
He exits, slipping back inside my body. The leaves finally return to the trees and it was lovely nighttime once again. I was back in Paris. Now when I viewed the window, the inside was back to its original form. A man with a trench coat was buying pastries and sipping from his coffee as he thanked the young girl behind the counter.
It finally hits me that I’m drenched, realizing I’ve been out in the rain this entire time. Indifferent, I continue my stroll through Paris, deciding that I’d return to the hotel once I saw the ferris wheel up close.
I come across a man selling umbrellas under a small tent. The sign said “cinq” so I handed over a regular five dollar bill, hoping he’d accept it even though it wasn’t the French currency. He nods gratefully and hands me an umbrella. “Merci,” I tell him and open it up, now sheltered from the rain. I set off on my midnight journey, pushing any thoughts from before out of my mind. I didn’t want to think about heartbreak.
The sound of passing cars and soft pitter patter of the raindrops as they fell over everything quietly was almost as comforting and assuring as when I used to be able to hold her hand.
I think I like being alone.