Pour un flirt

It was there, yes, just there, by the bicycle racks opposite the Brazilian restaurant, I remember. In the middle of Paris, at 3 a.m., in a near-deserted street, I lifted up my skirt to show J. what a thong was. Mine was in cream lace, prettily designed, skimming the line of my hips without digging in. At the time J. knew more about the Left Bank than he did about women's lingerie, so he'll have learned that, at least. The first time, I mean the first glass, in the bar of a classy hotel, that same summer, we kept our distance, each in our own armchair, a distance that comes before things become blurred. He was wearing an old-fashioned shirt with pale stripes and there was a scent of sandalwood in the air. I think I was being provocative. Those half-smiles like promises, color on my lips, my feet in high heels. I'm talking about those things that aren't said, like a warm feeling on my neck; the way he looked, like a fighter.

Wait-no, I remember now: the first time was somewhere else. Porte Maillot, on a café terrace. Just in front of the metro entrance. We talked about love for hours, over a croque monsieur. We conversed like experts in the humid August heat: I was wearing a flowery skirt.

Another day, we met on the steps of the Opéra; we walked at night, crossing streets and bridges, from bar to bar, our mouths glued to one another. On boulevard St-Germain I showed him my panties, taking them out of my pocket like a trophy- I had taken them off in the restroom, out of sheer provocation, or as a dare. On the other side of the river, I somtimes pass the restaurant where we ate dinner, on another evening; where I caressed his leg with my bare foot. We drank white wine at the back of a softly lit room, and said the right things. We kissed standing up, my body weighing against his- it was a moment of pure emotion, pure eternity, the sort of moment that isn't quite real. The last time, dawn broke over the Seine after we had drunk and walked all night; the door of the taxi was open and he held me by the arm on the sidewalk of the boulevard St-Michel. I laughed because i was so pretty in his eyes: he said, "I love you, I'll wait for."

I never saw him again

- Delphine de Vigan