I never watched The Notebook. I’m not one to get voluntarily depressed, but that was Emma’s reply as soon as I told her I decided to stay an extra week in France with Henri to HGTV the bar. It’s not as glamorous as it sounds…I guess DIYing a bar doesn’t sound all that glamorous in the first place, but watching Henri’s eyes sparkle as his dream becomes a reality is something I’m lucky to admire.
We start our days with coffee breath kisses before we head to get daily supplies. It still baffles me that this man who fabricated into my world has become such a concrete column to the structure of my life. Or as I call it “French Alice Life” since a large part of me refuses to accept that this is actually happening. Most days have been filled with logistics since I told Henri I’m here “On business”. Henri is having me curate the wine list. He gives me a hard time when I try to give him a hand with anything else that might include heavy lifting but I tease how else can I get close enough to smell his pheromones interact with the wood of the walls. I’ve been craving closeness in these mundane tasks. It’s a bit different without our audience from the Vineyard. Going to bed next to Henri is wonderful and all but I miss Ruby’s knowing glances more than anything.
We’ve stayed in a routine similar to the one at the Vineyard. There's a different kind of intimacy getting to know someone through multitasking. An uncensored version of self. There’s less pressure in this space to gather details of him like keepsakes. Thats how I know I feel safe. Thats the strange thing about safety. As soon as you realise you have it, it takes less than a second before the fierce force of fear or losing it kicks in. At least thats my cycle. I return to hanging on each word, glance, taste as if they are trinkets I’ll pass down for generations.
The mission of my plan to stay kis based in the menu. I spoke with Alec. It tyurns out I’m not as mysterious as I like to think I am. He knew exactly what he was doing when he sent me on this trip. Maybe not knowing he was sending me to Henri but he knew he was sending me towards an inspiration. A light that would ignite and I would carry back home. Faux Amis is the big light that I will proudly carry back.
My head is buried in my leather-bound notebook writing with a sport fountain pen. A way to romanticize the writing experience that I tend to dread. Tucked in the back pocket I keep my Feild Notes from Antonie’s Vineyard. I kept multiple journals there. Journals seem to be so personal especially when traveling but mine are filled with logistics. I share my personal specific descriptions willingly when it comes to wine but when it comes to describing my own life and memories I freeze. Writing in fear of someone reading is embarrassing but my skill. I wonder if it has to do with my protection of talent? Thats one way to put my fear of letting anyone into how the “Alice Brain” works. Henri requests “Alice Brain” writing for this menu, for this space that is so special to him that Alice Brain feels like too much pressure. I feel enough pressure being Alice but these thoughts that used to be so freeing have now become my worth. My trademark. I’m stuck when it matters the most. Although my notes are filled with logistics they are IMPORTANT logistics … such as recipes from Bea. I treat that notebook like gold. Henri and I have attempted some of her dishes but nothing can replicate the feeling you get in your heart when you indulge in something made by that womans hands with ingredients from our heaven.
I never wanted to miss the flow of conversation with Bea. But I studied her. I studied her hands, warmth and charm. I studied her timing and perfect balance between work and play. Making food and conversation was her art. There should be a term for that or genre. A type of culinary hospitality that not a soul could pay for. You pay in conversation and presence. Energy. Genuine appreciation. Nothing phony, even after the hardest day when the energy of the room was stale that gratitude remained charged. Through my “Beatrice Thesis” I watched and wrote everything down as she made the meal. It was important to me not to ask her specifrics of the recipe - measurements felt like an insult to even ask. As I attempt to replicate I laugh thinking of artists to replicate famous painters. With food its one thing for it to look the same but another for it to taste the same. Replicas are impossible with cooking even though its a science. Thats the devastating thing about it. Once you have a homecooked meal by someone like Bea when they are done all they become are memories. A feeling you had. Something that tastes like Nostalgia.
Henri arrives back from the store with a giant tarp. My dark humor slips in assuring me that this is going too well that the tarp is definitely a tool for my murder. He soon brings out paints. Colors of purple and green.
Henri whispers to me to lay down. I take my time stripping off my paint covered denim and Bruce Springsteen oversized tee. Henri's eyes not leaving mine. His focus is soft but direct. It’s controlled and kind. Boyish in the way that he cant believe I’m doing this but at the same time isn’t surprised at all. We always find our way into a spontaneous sexy mess.
I lay in the center of the canvas. I’m like a child waiting to be outlined in chalk with my heart racing as if I’m about to be found in a game of hide and seek. He dips his fist into the bucket of a deep purple paint. He stands over me and lets the paint drip one drop at a time off his fingers. The cold wet paint drips directly on my stomach and as I get used to the heat it brings between my legs he instructs me to flip over. My chest is rough against the canvas and the wet paint sticks me to the ground. Henri traces down my spine. I’ve never felt shivers quite like these. Being dirty, carefree and finally alone. He works my back with the paint like a masseuse gently before pressing his bare chest against me. He kisses my kneck and in one sweep wraps his arm under my stomach pulling me towards him. We roll around the floor that has such a future ahead of it. The amount of stories that will take place in this room and not a soul beside Henri and I will know of this one. This one where his lips are pressed against mine with such passion this kiss could create a new color of its own.
There's the look after incredible sex where it’s either “Whoa that was magic”, “Holy shit” or “I’m going to need 5-7 business days to process what just happened.” The look I saw when I opened my eyes was pure. It wasn’t primal in the way people assume when it comes to sex, it was an honest, innocent giggle. Our giggle that turned into a cackle that slowly turned to a cry. A sweet cry of connection. A cry of “I can’t believe you saw that side of me”. A cry of “I’m going to miss you so fucking much.” A cry of “Letsw figure this out.” We are covered in paint, sweat, and tears on the floor of Faux Amis.
