Paint By Numbers
6. Gray
It’s his last night. We’ve struck up a nice rooftop rapport with the Parisian boys from the reform school. The teenagers deemed delinquent and in need of les vacances came prepared: pre-rolled joints, flasks of cognac older than they are, and scribbled notes of nightclub listings.
Lalo holds a joint, gifted to him by the twelve-year old chain-smoker and master pickpocket, a kid called Guy.
“From what I understand—he says that this is ours,” says Lalo. “Right Guy?”
Oh, right. It’s Gee.
Guy flashes a chubby thumbs-up and smiles impishly. He solemnly lights a cigarette and nods at us, as if he is an old man reminiscing the foibles of youth. He stares up the sky, as if decoding lost messages that we could never possibly understand.
We climb down to our concrete slab. Lalo sparks the joint and takes a long drag. I trace the crescent moon scabs on his knees. I nick a hardened edge with my nail, but it’s not ready to be peeled off. I dig my nail a bit deeper, and he swats my hand.
“Stop that, babe.”
Babe is an afterthought, an attempt to soften stop. I lay back on the concrete, but Lalo stays sitting. He continues to smoke, and doesn’t pass the joint to me until I pluck it from his fingers.
“What’s on your mind?”
“My ex paid for my ticket out here. I never would’ve had this summer, if she hadn’t.”
We don’t say anything else and watch our smoke trail mingle with Guy’s, upward into the canopy of bougainvillea.
7. Blue
Everyone at the hostel is lamenting the departure of the sexy janitor who paints, as he’s become something of an institution.
We sit in the taxi and stare at the world outside the window. The Côté d’Azur blazes sapphire and the Promenade des Anglais is bustling with scantily clad roller-bladers, joggers, photographers, crepe-munchers, dog walkers.
At the airport gate, Lalo tips his straw hat and smiles. We hug, hard, like two people who’ve known each other for a long time.
“Back to the grind,” he whispers. “We’ll hang in New York?”
“Sure,” I say. But I know that we won’t.