When I rejoin my friends, Brianna is smiling broadly and her talking has increased in volume. She points at me and says: "Hey, get a load of that leggy thing…," continuing, she adds "… finished already Kiko? Join me with another…" I follow after her to the bar and cut in just before she orders. "Je voudrais un Perrier au citron…" (I would like a Perrier with lemon).  Brianna doesn't understand French and tries to order a vodka and club soda with lemon. The bartender refuses her and suggests: "Perhaps the young lady would prefer another beer…" Brianna accepts the beer with an audible snarl. Returning to our group she says to me that now she wishes she had taken French instead of Spanish. "So how'd you get the vodka?" she wants to know. I smile and flash my eyes at her saying "I promised him sex later!" Brianna opens her mouth as if to say something and then says nothing. Her attitude changes immediately when she sees that two of the "cute boys" have left their table, leaving behind two vacant seats. She drags me, sits me down, and she takes the one empty seat remaining. Brianna begins with introductions. "Hi guys; I'M BRIANNA, and this is my HAWAIIAN friend, KIKO." The boys exchange glances and smile to one another. I overhear the words "smashed" and "shit-faced." Willing to enjoy a good game, I play along. I smile broadly towards a taller, fair-skinned blond boy sitting next to me. I introduce myself to him as Akiko Tanaka. He is silent for a moment. Then he realizes it is his turn to say something. Still looking at me from the waist down, he says: "Oh, Kiko… nice le… names, uh, name…" Like a contestant at the Miss America pageant, I force a smile. "Are you drunk…?" I ask. "Yeah, kinda…" he replies. I make no response. I have just noticed an older, twenty-something man at an adjacent table. He is looking at me. But not at my legs, he is looking directly into my eyes. Shyly, I avert my eyes and turn to ask Brianna how's she doing. "I NEED ANOTHER BREW!" she responds, momentarily gaining the attention of everyone within earshot. Because we are sharing a room, I begin to wonder just how drunk she is going to get and how the alcohol will affect her. There was one boy in our group missing from breakfast in the morning. He had been excused by the chaperones who said that he was "sick." The story spread quickly, and it was not necessary to inquire, that he had been vomiting. I glanced back to my other side and noticed the blond boy who had not even considered introducing himself sweating profusely. He appeared distraught. I got up and excused myself, but no one at the table seemed to notice my departure. The boys were too involved counting twenty franc notes, and Brianna was laughing too much to care. 

I exit the bar. The noise and smell of alcohol quickly fades. The lobby is quiet. I sit at an empty couch. I say "screw it" to myself and take a pack of cigarettes from my purse. Smoke rises around me. Two men behind the reception give me quick glances, and then begin a conversation in French I cannot follow. I look down at myself and button up my blouse. As inconspicuously as possible I fix my skirt. It almost extends to my knees … almost. A man with a uniform approaches me and asks in English "Will the young lady be retiring now to her room…?" I respond that I will finish my cigarette first, and add, in French, "et peut-etre un autre…" (and perhaps another).  He walks away. I extinguish my cigarette and retire to my room. I knock first, before entering, and no one answers the door. I enter slowly. It is dark and quiet inside. Brianna is not there. I turn to check the hallway, half-heartedly expecting to see her stumbling back, but she is not visible. Instead I catch a glimpse of the twenty-something man from the bar. He didn't follow me; at least I don't think so. He enters a room with a card key and doesn't even look in my direction. Tired, I go to my bed, take off shoes, skirt and blouse, and fall asleep in love with a goose down pillow. 

 

Lizzi is undressing in the bathroom, preparing for her morning shower. She tosses questions out, along with her nightclothes. "Was he really the first?" "Are you sure you got enough sleep?" "Did you feed Archangel?" "What are you going to wear?" "May I borrow your black jeans?" I hear the water running. I picture her getting all soapy. Steamy mist and delicate aromas of scented oil waft towards me. The image of a most beautiful, inviting, and triangular shaped galaxy forms in my mind. It appears to me as if illumined from its inner core. The stars are all shades of red, varying hues and brightness'. Lizzi approaches me, her long black hair still wet and glossy. "Got to run. K if I take the jeans? Resetting the alarm so you get up before eleven; don't forget your French final! See ya later and good luck, as if you ever need it. Tell me about votre premier (your first) when I get back?" Before I can formulate a coherent response, Lizzi slides into my jeans, puts on a camisole and warm sweatshirt, throws a ski cap on and picks up her books. Before going out, she turns at the door, and says she loves me. Archangel kneads a warm spot beside me, purring.

It would seem that Lizzi remembered more of my dream than even I. I don't remember dreaming about "the first time." Where or how Lizzi came upon that information will remain a mystery to me for the time being. I attempt to focus on getting more sleep before the final. After a few minutes I put these thoughts aside and decide to feed Archangel instead. Hungry guy is wanting something for breakfast. He follows me to the kitchen. I find some chicken leftovers in the fridge: one of Archangel's favorites. He knows what I'm putting in his bowl before he can see it. "What a smart kitty," smiling at him, "knows when his Kiko finds a little chicken!" "You'd think it was your first time eating in days," as he chews and chews. "Maybe even your first time!" 

So I think back to my first time. I met the boy there, when I was in Paris. As it turned out he was Canadian, but not French-Canadian. My French learned in America was superior to his. He was different from every other boy I had ever met. He was quite shy and quiet. Even after a few beers. We met in the bar the second time I visited there. Brianna had pointed him out. He was very cute indeed. About 5'-7" weighing around 125 lbs. Dark brown hair, a bit longish, but full of natural body and shine. And his eyes were a lovely deep dark brown. He didn't appear at all muscle bound nor outgoing. I observed him sitting very quietly at a table with a group of other boys. He didn't appear to be interacting with them much. One could have believed him to be in his own world, far away from conversation or bar noise. His eyes weren't wandering. He seemed to stare into space at something no one else could see. Strange, I thought, but definitely different. I had had my full of the "regulars." Braggarts mostly, full of themselves, and intolerably ignorant. Some never really listened to me at all until their probing forced me to insist: "No." For a long time I thought I'd never meet a nice boy. My friends always pointed out my smallish breasts as a handicap. They used to suggest I pad my bra or wear a bustier. I couldn't see myself doing that. For what I had learned of boys it wouldn't have been worth it. In any event I asked Brianna to accompany me to the ladies' room. I asked her how I looked. "Fine, Kiko, why?" I asked her to join at the table with the brown eyed boy. "K, no problem, but lemme see your lipstick first…" Brianna did her face and I touched up my hair.