Midnight In Paris

​​The rain started as a drizzle just after eleven. It soaked the cobblestones in front of the café, making them glisten under the soft yellow light of the streetlamps. I sat at a small table by the window, a glass of red wine in my hand. Outside, the night blurred in streaks of rain and shadow. Inside, the café was warm, but I wasn’t.

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I was back in Paris, just as I had promised her once. Only now, she wasn’t here.

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The waiter approached, his white apron spotless despite the rush of people coming in from the wet streets. He asked if I wanted another glass. I nodded.

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“Bordeaux, monsieur?”

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“Yes,” I said, though it didn’t matter.

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She used to sit across from me, her fingers tapping the rim of her glass, her laugh carrying over the soft hum of conversation. She had a way of leaning in when she spoke, her words filled with urgency, as if she needed me to understand something vital. I never asked what it was, and now I would never know.

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The clock above the bar ticked toward midnight. I wondered if she was somewhere thinking of Paris, of me, of that night. The rain had come down harder then, and we’d bought a cheap umbrella from a street vendor—a bright red one that clashed with her dark coat. She held it high as we ran through the streets, laughing at the way the wind threatened to pull it from her hands.

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We ended up here, at this café. It was late, and the waiter had wanted to close, but she convinced him to let us stay. She had that way about her, of making people bend without even realizing they were doing it.

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“Do you remember the pouring rain?” I asked the empty seat across from me.

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The wine arrived, and I drank it quickly, not bothering to savor the taste. I wanted the courage it brought, or maybe the numbness.

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Midnight came, and the cathedral bell tolled in the distance. The sound carried through the wet air, a low and mournful note that made me shiver.

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I closed my eyes and made a wish. It felt foolish, but I did it anyway.

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“Let me see her one more time,” I whispered.

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A few moments later, when I opened my eyes, the café door swung open, letting in a gust of cold air. A woman stepped inside, her coat damp from the rain. She shook it off and looked around, her eyes searching the room. My heart stopped for a moment. She had the same hair, the same way of holding herself, but when she turned, I saw that it wasn’t her.

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I looked down at my hands, my cigarette had burned to its end, the wine glass was empty again.

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She wasn’t coming.

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The waiter brought the check, and I paid without a word. Outside, the rain had softened to a mist, and the streets were quiet except for the occasional car splashing through puddles. I walked without a destination, my coat pulled tight against the cold.

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At the Seine, I stopped and leaned against the railing. The river flowed dark and steady beneath me, its surface broken by the rain. I lit another cigarette and watched the smoke curl into the night.

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I thought of her laughter, her tears, the way she had kissed me that night as if it were the first and the last time all at once. I thought of the train we had missed and the long walk back to the small apartment I’d rented, where we had fallen asleep to the sound of the rain on the roof.

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The city hadn’t changed, but I had. And she was gone.

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Somewhere, a clock chimed once. I flicked the cigarette into the river and turned away, walking back toward the café, though I knew it would likely be empty now.

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But I kept walking back for just another slight chance of seeing her, because what else could I do? I would keep walking there, night after night, because the love I carried for her gave me no choice. It was a quiet pull, steady and unyielding, guiding me back to that small table by the window at our little café in the heart of Paris.

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Written by Mark Gammill

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Midnight in Paris

 

I want to go back again

I can't stop thinking about you

we were so beautiful together then

back when our love was brand new.

 

Do you remember the pouring rain?

do you remember our perfect kiss?

do you remember the reason you cried?

do you remember the last train we missed?

 

I so loved being with you

more than anything else ever

remember us buying that cheap umbrella?

remember we didn't mind the bad weather?

 

So I'm back here in Paris again

trying hard to figure out what to do

missing so much my beautiful friend

having lost all communication with you.

 

Sitting here at this cafe tonight

that special one we both knew so well

ordering another drink & trying to stay warm

listening to a far-off cathedral bell

 

The clock suddenly strikes midnight

as I make one last desperate wish

please let me see her one more time

one last loving embrace

one last perfect kiss.

 

Written by Mark Gammill

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