I curled on Ruby's sheet as I chided myself. I failed to rouse or jump off the bed and kiss her at the door. Instead, after her departure, I waited. First, I rolled back the doona. Then I pulled on a pair of boxers and picked up the discarded tissues the pixie had left on the floor.
I washed the dinner dishes and wiped the flour scattered on the bench and the table. At least — leave her place tidy.
Ruby and domesticity!
I slept alone in her apartment on my last evening in Paris.
In the morning, I stuffed and then re-packed my backpack. I skipped breakfast to avoid eating it by myself. Then, resigned and despairing, I made a coffee. The final one, as I filled the kettle, lit the gas, and waited for the water to boil.
Go, I repeated to myself. Leave.
Ruby never stated her finish times; they varied in a flexible workplace. Neither did I inquire last night.
Go, maybe she wished to avoid a messy goodbye?
Pessimistic and downcast, I accepted not seeing her till Melbourne. I thumped the bench.
Damn, not inviting her to share a departure breakfast.
Bang! A loose wall tile above the stove slipped and clattered to the floor behind the gas plates. My eyes swung from the kitchenette to the slammed apartment door as I watched the extra key bounce off its hook and tinkle on the floorboards.
"Righto," Ruby managed, panting, "Good, you're here."
Even short of breath, she whipped up lively.
"Grab your bag; let's snare a croissant."
I turned off the gas and grabbed my backpack. Ruby thudded the door behind us. We descended a slow, single-file on the stairs. My backpack filled the staircase as she stayed in step behind me. It proved lucky, too, as we avoided stairwell squeezes today with her elderly portly neighbours, the Giscards, who lived on the fourth floor. In the apartment foyer, I gazed at the row of letterboxes.
Outside, only the early chill of the morning accompanied us.
Talk about Melbourne.
I blanked on a start. I gripped the straps of the backpack.
Write her a letter when you get home. But, unfortunately, she'd be in Perth soon. So she might not receive the letter.
We entered the brasserie, where we supped the mocha. My backpack spread clunky and chunky at the café door. It delayed my movement as I leaned it against a low window. Ruby, in the meantime, ordered herself coffee and croissants. I requested likewise.
As we waited, she rubbed her hands and commented, "Geez, who will go to the corner store?"
Picturing Ruby in a supermarket, I drew a blank.
My smile and my mouth headed dry. The deeper aches to speak, my voice wouldn't release.
We ate, swapping inane comments on warming caffeine and fresh buttered rolls.
A brisk walk to the metro. The backpack proved cumbersome on the escalator. It stopped me from hovering and glancing at Ruby. On the crowded platform, I wished her to corral me against the wall and kiss me.
The opportunity to extend our goodbye collapsed. The train pulled into the station. Ruby started an awkward hug, sloppy and loose-limbed.
My feeble effort, in return, matched hers.
I stowed my backpack and turned to wave seated inside the train.
No, wave from Ruby, she strode towards the exit. A navy haze amongst other commuters, everyone in dark winter colours. I glimpsed her merge and ripple. She faded as the train gathered speed in the underground tunnel, as darkened walls filled my vision.
I yearned across a speeding, growing distance for Ruby's life to meld into mine. My optimism spiked in the knowledge that our bodies had conjoined; my sincere, bona fide communication resided here. So distilled, Ruby would grasp it, assimilate, and acknowledge the heartfelt emotions I held reserved. I desired her, whatever the consequences.
Then, my memory confronted me. It mixed current and diffuse yearnings. My mind's eye gathered time spent in the company of other girls. My conscience tossed my body onto the canvas of introspection. The contents of my soul splattered as paint poured on an action painting.
A daiquiri, a shell, a skylight, a passport photo, olives, and ravioli. Who was the girl for me?
As the channel train left Paris, the scenic countryside flashed into view. I wanted to know if I could hold the Parisian brunette and her incredible mocha smile — a part of me was determined never to stop trying. I recalled our passion together; it gave me hope.
Next, I dipped: she dodged a look back at me in the metro.
I summoned with deliberation Vonnegut, who wrote about looking back. He cited the danger of becoming undone in time. He penned how Lot's wife became a pillar of salt because she yearned to pivot. Vonnegut loved her because she looked back. I, too, esteemed this unnamed woman. She lingered, and she lagged. Despite the warned consequence, she spun to her past—a passionate citizen of Sodom and Gomorrah.
I strived to imagine the unthinkable, individuals obliterated—those about to give birth, near orgasm or on the verge of death. I contemplated vanished souls engaged in habitual rituals of personal significance. I pictured children spinning clay tops and the final thoughts held by everyone on the brink of destruction. Heartfelt declarations of love were left incomplete, and selfish acts remained static in limbo. Friendships were forevermore thwarted, a word away from starting.
Likewise, as my mental labyrinth expanded, too much of humankind atomised at Hiroshima. Forever at 8.15 a.m. on a Monday on a past August day. Beyond comprehension, it blew human memories into oblivion. I hoped they floated somewhere in eternity.
The lush meadows and sombre Great War graveyards of the French countryside passed as the train sped out of the city. Paris and Ruby were farther and further behind me.
Lot's wife looked back.
I pictured Ruby, French sticks, black knickers, and sprinkled salt.
My viewpoint spread: I hoped Lot's wife's terminal thought lingered savoury and pleasant before her transformation into a pillar of salt. I contemplated her fixed on a salty, sexual lick. And childhood memories of pristine ocean salt perhaps overlaid it. Sex and salt: her sex became salt.
My conscience niggled me — Ruby, too, was the salt of the earth.
Ruby, me, everyone, if we opened up.