Anthology. Robert Deshaies

      Chapter 1

      A Nightmare in Paris

      So there I was spending my first Saturday night in Paris across the street from my creepy boss’s flat. Yes, I was, in fact, smoking a cigarette.

      Earlier in the week, he approached my desk and had left an overly sticky Post-it Note with an address and a poorly written description. He didn’t say a word. He left a note on my desk without saying a word. The poorly written description read something like this: “Anniversaire, Cigarette, Taste.” Whatever the fuck that meant? Like I said, it was a Monday. I had landed the night before at Charles de Gaulle, and I was exhausted. I acknowledged the note and put my head down for the rest of the week. I was kind of an introvert, but I was good at my job. I guess that was why I took the offer so quickly.

      The firm had just transferred me over from New York. I was their top editor. This transfer was something of a promotion, at least that was what I thought. Yay, me. Too bad they couldn’t have paid for my flight, although the flat they supplied was lovely. Anyways, the week flew by, and Saturday rolled around. It was precisely 10:04 p.m. when I entered my boss’s place. The door was unlocked to his building, and thank God for the elevator. He lived on the seventh floor, and I was wearing a skintight, slim black-and-gray leather dress. Sexy, right? When choosing my outfit earlier, I hadn’t set my mind to whether I was aiming to be sexy or sophisticated. So take me as you like.

      The elevator opened, and my inner monologue stopped. I heard one ring, and I reached the seventh floor. I stepped out onto the level, and the porcelain floor reflected nicely against his polished piano-black doors. On his door, there was a note. This one was written quite beautifully, and it wasn’t overly sticky. This note read, “Entre La Deviance.” Honestly, it had just occurred to me. I have been living in Paris for a week, and I don’t understand any French. Had I even ventured anywhere other than the office and my place? I grabbed the door handle, and I entered. The piano doors swung open to an entryway of mythological magnitude. Wow.

      This flat was a masterpiece—porcelain floors, twilight drapes, pairing excellently with the midnight bar and bar top. Everyone attending was dressed for pleasure. It was a masquerade for some; others, well…I saw thongs and bow ties. As my eyes made their way through the densely packed room, I saw pretty much every piece of skin you could imagine. I would go no further. I wondered then if I had just stepped into some orgy, but that observation proved all too real as the night went on.

      Everyone’s gaze quickly darted away from me as I took my second step. I guess I wasn’t worth that much attention. I kept my head down and dashed to the bar. I looked at the strapping young man serving my food and beverage and said, “Vodka Red Bull.”

      And he said, “Non.”

      “What the fuck do you mean non?”

      With his sexy, annoyed tone, he spoke, “Mademoiselle, we have beer and wine. No alcohol.”

      I responded apologetically and took a glass of red. I sipped the surprisingly delicious wine and took my glass and winked at Mr. Non. Before I moved to the perfect viewing point, I wrote down my number on the cheap napkin; I don’t think he would text me.

      So I darted off to the window in the corner, and I decided to, quote, unquote, “people watch.” It was the only activity I could think of without entering this…I still wasn’t quite sure what this was. The view from up here was beautiful, at least from what I could see down the street. The higher you were in Paris seemed to be the exact place anyone would want to be. This corner, besides the splendid view, was perfect for my situation. I could have a presence without being present. The girl in the corner—absent, but present. As I cowered in my corner and sipped moderately, albeit quite excessively, a coworker noticed me awkwardly squeezing myself into the edges. We exchanged the firm head nod. You know, the “Hey, I work with you, but don’t know your name” one. I raised my hand awkwardly and waved hello. She was beautiful, and she was fast approaching. I had to think fast, so I shifted my right heel forward and tried to appear sexy. What that movement did was entirely subjective. To me, that movement was powerful. She noticed.

      “Really?”

      “What?”

      “I saw you do that.’”

      “Do what?”

      “Shift your heel forward to place your very sharp, very sexy hip forward so you could show me your paraphernalia. I’m Sonja, by the way.”

      I think I’m in love.

      “Oh, that, I was just…oh, never mind. You caught me.”

      Sonja now stood directly across from me, and I stared. I wasn’t sure what to say.

      “So are you going to tell me your name?”

      Oh my god, I had forgotten entirely about my name. I had to regroup for a millisecond because my inner devil was still drooling over this gorgeous and intelligent woman.

      “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m Melanie.”

      Oh god, I’m terrible at this. What the hell was I thinking, trying to get this girl’s attention? She’s reaching out, like right now. Oh my god, she’s touching my hand now. My hand is approaching her lips. She’s kissing it.

      “Enchanted, Melanie.”

      “Oh, you as well, I guess?”

      She knew I was very awkward, but I think she liked it. The conversation began when she mentioned my dress, and we started talking. Work never entered the discord, thank God. The night went on, and I didn’t even notice the room filling with more people. It was 11:30 p.m. I guess Parisians party late.

      Sonja and I sat on that corner and chuckled, and we began to posture ourselves against each other. I think it was the sexual tension building. Anyways, the clock struck midnight, and the door swung