I am in Paris in the banlieues and I am going to a party. Or at least I think I was invited. And I am parking my car on a deserted dusty brown and ill-lit side street. There are no other cars at first but when I park I find myself trying to squeeze in between a white van and a blue car. I have to shift my car back and forth to maneuver it into the space.
Once I am satisfied I get out, but my car is bumpered up against the blue car behind me.
The definition of curb and road is poorly defined as if it is a construction site and the dust of the concrete has blurred the partition.
It will do, I think, as I walk away, even though I see that I am a good two feet from the curb.
So I walk to the party, somebody’s house, and there are students there, a younger crowd, different nationalities, and they are having a good time. In one room, a few are lying on the floor under a beige duvet, laughing as they throw pillows on top of each other.
I go to another room, I think the kitchen, and a woman in a black dress, loose-fitting, says something to me about her phone but I am not paying attention. I see her breasts pop out from her dress, they are small and pert, with dark brown nipples. Her breasts are too small for her dress, and she looks annoyed or uncomfortable that I saw that. She pulls up the strap of her dress and walks away.
I lean out the window, look out at the houses opposite. Each balcony is brightly colored with sheets and shirts hung up on clotheslines. It looks homely, but happy, with an ease, the same ease as the people at the party.
Then it dawns on me, I don’t love my life. Wife.
I return to the room where they are throwing the pillows, but I don’t fit in, I need to leave and I pull out my phone to see the way. Only it is not my phone, it is square with a blue screen and it has a different provider so I take it back to the woman with the black dress.
Black dress thinks that I took it from her, I can tell. She has an Irish accent. As she steps away I see she has a black wart on her back, just above her left shoulder blade.
These people are having fun, they love each other, or are comfortable, and I know I don’t belong. I sour the party. So I pull out my own phone this time and pull up the map. And the map’s locations are in French with some Arabic but the phone has only 1% battery and I need to hurry.
Back outside I am looking for my car and the streets are filled with life, new stalls brightly lit, people heading somewhere, or browsing, or with dinner plans, or rendezvous, or other parties to go to. I walk past them to my car only it is not where I thought it would be. There is a different line of cars, even on the dark street where I thought I’d parked.
I return to the main street, then back again to double check, but my car is not to be found. And I go up to a stall decorated with purple and white awnings advertising medical options or a pharmacy, I cannot tell. A white mortar and pestle are painted on the awning.
The owner is closing up but I duck under the awning to get some light on my phone. As I pull up the map I realize that I cannot get home without it. I’ve never been to this part of Paris before and I won’t be able to intuit my way back.
And the phone now indicates 0%.
I don’t want to, but my only choice is to return to the party to charge it even a little.
Photo by Viktor Solomonik on Pexels
