“That means nothing.”

“That means everything. Just remember what I said.”

He salted his bread and swam it through the olive oil.

“Let’s drop it,” I said. “I know you are trying to be a friend.”

“I am,” he affirmed, as we finished dinner faster than usual and parted.

It was late evening, and I went to meet Genevieve at a cocktail lounge near her apartment, where we had drinks on the terrace and debated going on to another place, but began kissing in the open air, ending up back at her apartment, where we entwined until the morning alba spread out over the rooftops.

The curtains were open and the room flooded with light as we fell asleep, but we did not rise until the sun was high over the day, when we enjoyed a light breakfast in the kitchen with the windows open to the ocean of the city below.

It was Sunday and we went antiquing in the markets, then stumbled on a street fair, where we bought Martiniquean food, which we carried down to the river. She took out a white sheet from her bag, which she spread across the white stone, and we reclined and loafed on the banks of the Seine, listening to a Brazilian band play bossa nova standards on the lower banks.

“You are my man,” she said, leaning to kiss me.

“I have to go back to New York.” I forced myself to be practical, as I considered the uncertainty of a long-distance love affair. “I’m not sure this is possible.”

“Because you have fear? So what if we have a crazy love? As long as it is love.”

“I have to leave,” I said ruefully.

“You do not,” she replied. “You can change your ticket.”

“Maybe.”

“Yes. Stay with me. We will be happy.”

“Are you sure?”

“I always know my man.”

“I thought you liked my friend first.”

“Do not be like that. He is the kind of man who goes to parties where the people ask what his last film is about, which they did not see, and what he will make next, and he explains it to them.”

“What should he do?”

“Let it speak for itself.”

“I know that is how Americans are. Everyone has to say he is the best. But I only care that he will be a good friend to you. For me he talks too much about money, and pretends to be radical, when really he is safe as a housecat. It makes a little excitement for the bourgeoisie, but it is not freedom.”

“Davidson is his own man, even when he does what he has to do.”

“Yes, that is what the people always say. But he is losing his chance to be a real artist, from being in a business where they confuse money with art. At least he knows it, I guess, and does not lie to himself. And neither should you, even if it makes things difficult. He respects you for that. That is also why he stays here. He hates going back, because in America they only like dead artists and he knows it is making him dead. But you will stay because you are in love, and that is the only thing that makes our lives less alone.” She skipped a stone across the river.

“We are all alone. Not even love alters that.” I stared up, squinting at the sun.

“True. But it is also true that you will stay for me.” She kissed me again slowly as tasting the future. “But you already know.”

“Do I?”

“Are you telling me you are leaving? Because you have only to look at me and say, ‘Genevieve, I am not your man.’ And I will let you go. I will wave my wrist and walk away. Go, say it.” She fluttered her fingers and closed her eyes.

I said nothing.

“Good, now let’s discover our mystery. Feel how exciting it is?” She took my hand to her breast, so that I could feel how wildly her heart pulsed.

“Yes,” I said, unwilling to resist even if I had been able to, which would have taken an effort of will beyond me. I was her man, if only for the time we were together, which is all there ever really is.

She called in sick to work the next morning. We spent the afternoon wandering the streets, and evening in bed, and the next morning as well. Tuesday the museums were all closed, and she had arranged for us to go to the Louvre, which was empty of people except the curators. We roamed from gallery to gallery, looking at the work without any of the usual noise but the crackling energy between the paintings.

“Are you looking at the art, or the naked girls?” she teased, as we made our way through one of the modern wings.

“What is the difference?”

“Don’t be superficial,” she teased. “The girl and the painter are pilgrim and bridge on the way. The art is a lens, holding still a moment, reflecting it back to us, like a memory we have forgotten. Now do not talk, or else you will miss it if your spirit wants to tell you something better than your own questions.”

The pyramid was bright with light, illuminating the world anew, and the rest of the week was the same — the two of us orbiting reality from a celestial perch, until the following Sunday, when I could not change my ticket again, and had to catch an early morning flight for New York.

“Will you vanish, or will we see each other again?”

“I hope we will see each other again,” I said, afraid of losing it. “I feel like we might have something.”

“Then you should move here.” She nested deeper into me, before I could leave the bed to dress. “We are free. We can live wherever we wish.”

“I do not know if it is that easy. Let’s see what happens.”

“We will see what we make happen,” was her riposte. I was old enough then to appreciate what I had been given, and knew the sympathy between us demanded I do whatever I could to see if we should be together. What I still did not know was whether I had the faith to trust in it.

I returned home plagued with longing, unable to focus on anything besides her. Weeks later our calls and messages to each other continued to grow, leaving me surprised at the strength of my yearning.

“Do you want to come for a visit?” I asked, late one night for me, early in the morning for her, after we had spoken of the strength of our emotions.

“I thought you were against long-distance relationships,” she said matter-of-factly. “You are supposed to be forgetting about me, and focusing on all of your important things in New York. I did not want to cross the ocean for an affair.”

The sound of her voice over the line always excited me. But I matched her move and retreated. “You are right. I should not have asked.”

“You are awful,” she said. “How will anyone ever live with you?”

“Who said anything about living together?”

“Do not joke around with what you care about,” she declared, present and unafraid of showing herself. “Now you miss me and are sorry for the way you behaved. For your fear.” She did not ask, but stated it triumphantly. “Because I know you understand how we must embrace the people who deserve our embrace, without reservation.”

Listening to her made it sound so simple, and the distance no longer seemed so great an obstacle. I asked her again to come for a visit.

“I will think about it, but what about your other girls?” she probed. “Won’t they be jealous?”

“There are no girls,” I said.

“Tell me you miss me then.”

“I miss you,” I assured her. “I want you here.”

“Are you completely certain?”

“Yes. Come over next weekend.”

“Before it was simple, now you must wait. You will not catch me again so easily.” She gave out the deep, breathy laugh of vitality that had won me before, and it won again. “But if you do, it will be because you are my man.”

When we hung up I realized my fear of giving in to what I wanted was not dread of not having it, or of gaining and losing and the resulting pain, only the anxiety of being exposed. As we ended the call I understood why people make such fools of themselves for love. I had no desire to be a fool, of course. But who was I not to be?