The Meet in Paris, France (flashback)

Three years ago...

What was it with this character. Why was he chasing her? This couldn't be right.

"What on earth do you want" Angie waved his hand from her sleeve. Thick fingers with dirty nails.

"I am no stalker. Please hear me out." The man begged.

Clearly a fellow American, she thought.

"What then?"

"You left something at the gate in JFK; I just had to follow you down to Paris to give it back to you. It's that important. "

She looked startled now, uncomfortable. He had taken her by surprise. What possibly could she have left in New York? Everything important was here, in Paris.

In a sudden panic, she took out her purse and looked inside.
Passport, check; ID card, check; money, check; traveler's checks, check. Photos from the homefront, double-check!

"I really don't know what you mean. I didn't lose anything. You must be mistaken."

"I don't think so," he smiled an awkward smile.

An odor of turpentine and paint, spicy, not unpleasant, filled her nostrils.

"What did I leave then? Please tell me? I am in a hurry for an important meeting."

"Here it is," he said, giving her the red leather backpack he was carrying.

"That's not mine? You came down here to give me that?! That's somebody else's. I am so sorry. You have the wrong girl." She put the bag on the street.

She turned and was about to walk away when he uttered a big sigh and started to sob.

A few perfectly shaped drops left his eyes.

Feeling helpless, she stopped her tracks and looked at him.

She had never seen a man cry before, not in the wild anyway.

He grabbed the bag and unzipped it.

"Look," he said, "... this is what you left behind in New York. It's yours now. It used to be mine. But I don't have any use for it anymore."

Reluctantly Angie took a peek inside.

She screamed a sudden cry.

"Whoah, you sick fuck, what's that, is it real? There is blood all over."

She stared at a fresh lump of meat, veins visible, bloody, and gross!

Did it move? She thought it moved... Oh boy, this could not happen to her, a crazy man stalking her in the middle of a foreign city. With a bag full of fresh bloody meat. Ehh, viande! Her French wasn't even that good. She should call the police. This was bad, really bad.

"That," he said, looking at her with sad eyes, "is my heart."

"Your what?" That was enough. She backed off and started to run.

But he took her by surprise and grabbed her, forcefully stopping her at her pace. His hand warm and firm.

"It's my heart," he repeated. "You did this to me. You took my heart and left it the way it is now. I am without a heart because you left me at JFK.

I am in love with you. Take what's left of it. I have no use of it now. It's yours to take. Please?! "

He unbuttoned his shirt.

He was standing before her, sad but honest eyes, hair all over the place, and, as she noticed for the first time, what looked like a gaping hole in the middle of his chest. Or was it something else? The shadow of blood?

She screamed a second time.

"Oh, noooo!"

"O, yes dear, you took my breath away in New York, and my heart stopped right then and there. I had to take it out and follow you to give it to you. It's yours now. I am a broken man for the rest of my remaining days."

Angie stood there. There was not a sound, not a whiff of wind.

Slowly she walked toward him. And hugged him.

Poor sod!

Months later, they often told this story to everyone who wanted to hear.

How they met in Paris where she had an interview on an important book deal.

How Thomas had stalked her from New York and had decided on a serious practical joke. He had bought a pig’s heart at the butcher’s and had put it in a backpack—a red backpack for good luck.

Because he wanted that girl with the brown hair and the beautiful smile ever, risking that she would not like the joke if he explained it to her. Risking that she would hate him.

He had told everything in a quaint little Parisian restaurant that same evening. Sweet, warm croissants with a delicious bite. And strong hot coffee. And how she’d fallen for his comical manners and the seriousness of his advances despite his bloody t-shirt.

That night they ended up in her hotel room. To celebrate her book deal. Two glasses of bubbly champagne and a tender slow dance later, their first kiss and the rest was history.

Fast-forwarding three years, and they were still together and very much in love.

Even after death!



WC: 831

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