When the Heart Falls(111)

We enter the metro at its busiest time, professionals heading to work and students on their way to classes. Our group is shoved further in, standing so close I can smell the shampoo, perfumes and colognes of everyone around me. But it's Winter's body that's pressed the closest, her light tropical scent that draws me in and tempts me. The top of her head reaches my shoulder, and if I wanted, I could rest my chin on her head and pull her closer to me.

She looks up, as if aware of my inappropriate thoughts. "Sorry. I'm completely blocked in. I don't mean to invade your personal space."

It's an invasion I welcome, though I wish I didn't. "No problem."

"In New York, this is common," she says. "I ride the subways a lot, but it must feel pretty claustrophobic for you. I've never been to Texas, but it always looks very big and spacious in movies."

"It is. And hot, much hotter than Paris in the summer."

"Do you miss it?" she asks. "Texas? The space? The heat?"

"I miss the sun," I say. "The way it burns through the moisture in the air and warms everything. And I miss the space, the wide-open plains where you can't see another person for miles and the only sounds are from nature."

Someone jostles her from behind and she's pushed forward. I use my free hand to catch her, holding her up against me. My heart pounds in my chest and her face turns rose again, her breathing coming faster.

I don't let her go once she's balanced, though I know I should.

Still, she doesn't push me away either, instead she braces against my chest as she talks. "What about your family?"

"What about them?" I let my hand on her waist drop, and her red lips frown.

"I just meant, do you miss them too? They must miss you."

"As I said, it's complicated." I can't speak about it, about them, without revealing more than I care to, so I stop talking, withdrawing into my own thoughts for the rest of the ride.

There's an uncomfortable silence between us as I follow Winter out of the metro station and into the heart of Paris, but that changes when she stops and stares into the distance.

I follow her gaze and suck in my breath. "The Cathedral of Notre Dame. I have pictures of it hanging in my bedroom back home, but even from this far away it's more amazing in person."

"We're going to be touring it soon," she says. "I can't wait to see the bell. It's so romantic—the building, the history, the gargoyles." She sighs and the sound sends my mind in an inappropriate direction, but I pull it back to the conversation at hand.

I point. "See that rooster at the top of the spire?"

"Kind of. I think."

"They say it holds three relics. Part of the Crown of Thorns, one of Saint Denis's relics and one of Saint Genevieve’s relics."

"Cool. My favorite part though, is the gargoyles," she says. "I had a dream once that they came alive at night to protect the city from a dark threat. I wish I could remember more. It would have made a great story."

It occurs to me that someday I'll be able to read her books, even if we aren't together. I like knowing that. "You know the gargoyles and chimera were originally painted in bright colors that faded over the years, leaving the gray stone exposed." I direct her attention to the arches. "The building was built with the thinner walls popular in Gothic architecture, but they couldn't sustain the height, and stress fractures developed. See those arches offering support around the building? Where the gargoyles sit?"

"Yes."

"Those are flying buttresses, and it's the first building to employ that style. The gargoyles and chimera were added for additional support and as water spouts."

Winter is silent for so long I think I've bored her with my talk of old buildings. I've been told on more than one occasion by girls I've taken out that no one wants to hear about architecture, but Winter surprises me.

"I get it now," she says, still staring at Notre Dame.

"Get what?"

"Why you love this. It's like life, like a visual metaphor for life." She turns to me, her eyes bright. "As humans, we strive to grow taller and taller, to do more, be more, accomplish more, to push the boundaries of what's possible, right? And like in life, sometimes we outgrow our foundation and we start to crack under the pressure." She moves her hands as she becomes more animated. "To survive we have to come up with new ways to provide support for our own expansion, and that is beautiful. That adaptation, that creative use of resources, is what makes the human story so elegant and poignant. It's why I love words; they are my drawings, books my buildings. We're not so different, you and I. We're both doing our best to learn how to paint metaphors for life with the tools we understand and know—you with your buildings and me with my books."

We've fallen behind our group, but I don't make an effort to catch up. My current company is too enjoyable. This woman in front of me is so unexpected, so perceptive. Like the perfect building, she has the foundation, the framework needed to stand the test of time, and the beauty to make gazing on her so addictive. Because of that I have to be careful around her. She's staying in Paris. I'm going home, or back to somewhere, in just a few months. There's a shelf life on our time together and so I must hold her at a distance and keep our friendship platonic.