the last metro

We aren’t conservative French girls. We aren’t quiet, we aren’t restrained, and we don't believe in taboo.

Even though it’d only been a week since we’d seen each other, Aimee and I ran towards each other with open arms when she met me outside my apartment.

I took her up to my room where I poured her a glass of wine, poured myself a vodka and orange juice, and we feasted on a dinner of cheese, fruit, and bread. The meaty bits were purely in our conversation, covering any topic our minds chose to delve into, laughing viciously and bathing in each other’s company.

We’re on the same ground right now. We’re both single females walking alone on unfamiliar territory and figuring ourselves out. We agreed this was a beautiful time, personally the most beautiful of my life, and that it was great to be young. “But I’ll still be young when I’m sixty,” I added, “and a fucking rock star.”

The world is under our fingertips right now and we’re playfully feeling it out. I’ve been waiting to be this age since I was about twelve.

And somehow being out in the open air of unfamiliarity, on foreign ground, it makes this an easier time. Easier in the sense that we are freer to question ourselves, test ourselves, give ourselves room to grow without worrying about the fixed image others may already have of us.

Waiting for the metro we threw our arms around each other, my body warmed by knowing there are people that really know me, and still really love me. I made sure she knew the love was mutual.

Off into the small streets near the Sorbonne, we spoke to each other in obnoxious French accents. “You theenk people weel theenk we are French?!” Aimee screamed out to me. “I theenk they will theenk we are assholes!” I replied.

It wasn’t long before we found the holy grail of bars, where a handsome young waiter grabbed my friend’s hand, told us he loved Canadians, and led us to a table by the bar. And in this smoke filled room, with little pots of fire lining bits of the bar, the waiters walked around in spandex short shorts, their thongs poking out of the back. One waiter gave Aimee a lap dance while taking our orders-she ordered Sex on the Bar (a drink)-and we agreed we had come to the right place.

All the Parisian men seemed seduced by Aimee’s outgoing nature, including the Italian whose number she left with, and the Greek who bought us drinks. We spent the night dancing, drinking, and flirting with the beautiful bar staff, until we realized the metro was closing in minutes and that we had to run. I gave the bartender a kiss on the cheek, paid our bill, and we bolted.

Aimee’s bus trip around Europe was leaving at eight the next morning, but the metro would close down before she reached her destination, so she crashed at my place, where we set two alarms, and I made her a big cup of coffee at five in the morning so she could catch the next metro.

Having caught the last metro the night before, I hope she caught the first this morning.

She took off sleepy eyed, reluctantly wearing two-inch heels from the night before. C’est la vie, it’s great to be young.