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Mr. Paris

October 9, 2015

“Come here,” he wrote as we exchanged increasingly intimate messages. “What sweet words,” I replied.

Mr. Paris and I use e-mail like text messaging. We’ve continued to sporatically write to each other since meeting over my blog months ago. He checks in with me every so often. I send him articles and ask him questions about Paris. We talk about politics sometimes. We discussed the Iraq war when I was obsessed with Frontline documentaries. We talk about the insane things that are happening in this country right now. But mostly, we flirt.

He tells me he’s obsessed with me. That nobody gets him as excited as I do. I can’t help but laugh at these proclamations. It’s the same absurdity that crossed my mind when a potential employer said I would bring a level of professionalism to the organization. Me? I’m the person you find more exciting than anyone else?

He tries to draw out secrets from me. Details I haven’t written about. Sometimes he succeeds. Though it’s frightening to actually write those things. In e-mails. That are on a hard drive. I imagine one day……maybe I’ll die in a tragic accident and my children will find these obscene e-mails written by their mother to a stranger in Paris. Maybe I should leave a document on my computer desktop that says, “Whatever you do, for the love of God do not read the e-mails to or from Mr. Paris!”

He teases me with invitations to visit him. He could show me his Paris. I imagine walking the streets with him, dining in little cafés, drinking too much wine and flirting. Then maybe bringing to fruition all the intimiate suggestions we’ve written to each other.

He is unabashingly dirty with those suggestions. His words are usually met with laughter on my end, or depending on my mood, encouragement and surprising reception. We exhange messages while I’m at work and it’s evening in Paris. Sometimes he’s at home. Sometimes he’s out drinking wine. At my desk, several programs open, task lists at my side, I sometimes find myself a little hot and bothered by his silly, rauchy words and unethically distracted, switching obsessively from Adobe Illustrator to icloud mail.

Sometimes he’s sweet to me. And he gives me some loving morsel of romanticism.

It’s very foolish and quite possibly delusional but I like having some stranger out there in the world who wants me. Who’s obsessed with the idea of me. Who is attracted to the person he knows from my writing.

“You’re the only man who is sweet to me right now,” I wrote to him one day.

I know he could be lying. He could be nothing like he’s claimed to be. He could be a serial killer.

“How did Marie die?”

“Oh, she went to meet her pen pal in Paris and he chopped her up into little pieces.”

But his voice is velvety and his lips are beautiful.

After he read the blog called, “I’m Not Going to Write About Pumpkin Patch Again,” he wrote to me,

“pumpkin is a douche. stop it!”

His concern from 5,000 miles away was endearing.

Maybe one day I’ll be brave enough to actually go to Paris and meet him. If I could ever afford to do such a thing. The last time I tried to take a dream trip, I ended up in an Israeli Detention Center. Paris should be easy compared to that. I don’t know. What’s worse: being detained by Israeli Border Control or losing a beautiful dream by making it a reality?

In he meantime, I have my little Mr. Paris to flirt with and talk to, while I search in vain for someone real and here and available.

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From → Rantings

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