by Kathleen Bradean
(10/12/05)

Thursday traffic on Pacific Coast Highway was locked into a dance as brutal as a tango. Slow roll; fast brake; sudden turn. Somewhere between Malibu and Pacific Palisades, CalTrans workers in their bright orange vests bulldozed the latest mudslide off the narrow two-lane highway. I played tag with the convertible black BMW in the next lane, sometimes leading, mirroring its moves, sliding into a forced merge that put our overheated engines too close for comfort. The other driver only lacked a rose clutched between her teeth as we dipped across uneven pavement.

As I enjoyed my brief glimpses of her, I wondered, what song was she? It was more than a game; it was my job. I compiled soundtracks for movies and cable TV shows. The tune couldn't merely fit. It had to be perfect.

Radar Love, I thought with a wry smile. Car-themed, great drum break, bluesy guitar riffs, driving beat.

No. She wasn't rock and roll. Something about the way her long fingers coiled her tousled blonde curls into a French twist and set it with a clip was too languid for a rock beat.

I bet she laughed in bed. For her, sex was an all day thing, a Sunday morning laze of touch and kiss, brunch and the Times, mimosas on a balcony overlooking the ocean.

She rested her elbow on the sill of her driver's window and leaned her head against her hand as she talked into her mobile phone. A silver charm bracelet circled her slim, tanned wrist. I wondered if the person she spoke to knew that as she talked, her pink pearl lips blew kisses. Did they imagine pressing their mouth to hers over the distance?

My lane moved slightly faster than hers so I rolled with it. I lost her in my rearview mirror.

Between narrow beach houses, I caught glimpses of sapphire ocean. Palm trees silhouetted against a sky of gradient blues and stratified oranges. Hillside chaparral scented the air, dusty and verdant.

My fingers ran along the underside of my steering wheel, feeling bump, bump, bump. Traffic surged and hung. My lane stopped. She caught up, passed me. Did she ever run ahead of her lover, laughing over her shoulder, her eyes merry?

For her, I needed not just a song, but a soundtrack for an affair.

I wondered how long it had been since she drove with her top down, with the sun kissing her bare brown shoulders. She should have let her long hair stream behind her and ride the currents of air instead of pinning it at the nape of her neck.

But then it occurred to me that she wasn't a summer kind of girl. Surf and sand didn't suit her at all. She was something a little cooler, more reserved, fresher.

She was April in Paris.

Gershwin riffs.

The blonde BMW driver was a chanteuse, a late night Paris jazz chanson.

I could see it now. The cinematographer would choose grainy black and white punctuated by somber blues and muted amber. Wet streets reflecting pink neon light, bars with wood paneled walls, diesel fumes heavy in the air.

When I caught up with her again, I checked, and saw the fit. I imagined her voice was like Brie on a warm plate. Maybe she tasted like it too. Brie and raspberries: buttery, tart, and finally sweet as her clit shuddered against my tongue.

Yes.

I changed out CDs in my player. Madeleine Peyroux, J'ai Deux Amours.

She was probably a strolling kind of lover, hand in hand, the journey much more important than the destination. Her kisses were probably classic moments under gas lamps on the shores of the Seine. I'd be lost in her mouth while irritated Parisians walked their dogs.

Shaded by a green and white umbrella, we'd drink red table wine in slow sips while ordinary people rushed past. Then we, too, would desert the bustling dinner crowd to plunge into the night side of Paris.

Deciphering graffiti in the cemeteries, we'd search for Jim Morrison's grave. LA Woman, I'd call her. She'd have other ideas as she'd pull me behind a crypt. Crash Into Me. Her foot braced on a headstone, she'd beg me to fuck her over the marble monuments. As the gendarme passed, we'd stifle giggles.

Later, sprawled across hotel linens, she'd hog both pillows and ignore the Eiffel Tower outside the window. I'd ignore it too, preferring the curve of her thigh and swell of her buttocks.

Her favorite perfume would be sex, and she'd wear it every day. I'd never tire of it clinging to her skin. Throughout the evening, I'd catch whiffs of it in her hair. Our lovemaking would never really have a beginning or an end. It would ebb and flow around us, sometimes carrying us along in a surge to a park, my hand on her breast, her mouth hanging from my lips.

Fuck! I shouldn't get so worked up in traffic. No relief for miles on end unless I can slip my hand into my pants. Damn steering wheel! Not a chance of working it when my legs are pinned tight together in the narrow, low slung seats of my car. Frustrated, I pull at my cuffs and check my spiked hair in the mirror. She runs a finger over her heavy bottom lip and ends her call. Traffic jitterbugs forward.

Come Away With Me, back to Paris. Sleepy pianos and silver brushes sliding over taunt drumheads.

Me, leaning over the small candle on our corner table to light her cigarette. Her, slumping back in her chair and exhaling curls of smoke into the starry, starry night.

When our wanderings took us to Ile de la Cite, she'd threaten to confess her wickedness to a priest in Notre Dame, until I reminded her that true repentance meant changing her ways. Instead, she'd clutch my hand and drag me to the flower market to buy purple tulips.

She'd be the kind of woman I'd drop to my knees before, clutching the thick material of her overcoat in my desperate fingers, my face buried against the swell of her belly as I begged for more time with her. Her fingers would rake through my hair. I'd plead until the last train left the Metro station.

From how I ordered martinis to the way I rolled a stocking down a graceful leg, she'd be the lover that influenced me most. She'd give me tastes of things I'd never have again, but like a pipe dream, I'd chase her memory through our haunts when she was gone. Even though she wouldn't mean it to be that way, she'd be my femme fatale, the one who killed my innocence. I'd ache forever for having met her, forever ruined, forever holding back jagged pieces of my heart from other lovers. Forever after, the sound of a lone saxophone wailing would be enough to make me cry.

While she was still mine, I'd know hunger that could only be sated in dark alleyways. Her gossamer summer skirt would float above her hips while my palm pressed against her mons and my middle finger curled around the edge of her black lace French knickers. Her arm would loop around my shoulder and she'd pant against my neck just below my ear. I'd drag damp fingers under my nose and then suck on them. She'd beg me to do the same to her clit. For that taste, I'd willingly pay tears.

Dance Me to the End of Love.

Making love to her would be one long bluesy note, suspended above the chords of responsibility and reality. Touching her skin would be like the strum of fingers over guitar strings, a sweet rhythm. I'd hold my breath in the hopes that it wouldn't fade, but the blues never ended well. Even the City of Lights would be noir after such an affair.

'Round Midnight. That had the emotion, the ache, for the end of love. Yes. It had the flavor of late night air, the smell of disappointment and lost chances. It sounded like whiskeys drunk too often, and empty glasses slammed against wooden bars. It felt like sorrow and parting too soon.

In her hands, my heart would be like blown glass so fragile that it shattered against her goodbye kiss.

"Let the angels sing for your returning."

But I knew she wouldn't, because the soundtrack foreshadowed that final scene where she'd walk away from me forever.

I jerked back to traffic reality. I'd lost the real woman for my fantasy one. Where was she? I swiveled around, desperate for that last glimpse, like a shadowed figure disappearing in fog on the steps of Montemartre.

There she was.

In quick improvisational moves, as fluid as West Coast Swing, she jumped over to the next exit. She accelerated into the turn, defiant in her freedom. I raised my hand, a small gesture of farewell. She didn't see it. She wasn't the type to ever look back once she decided to go.

Final credits: Exterior. Night. Me, strolling alone through Paris.

Solace or moonlight?

Solace by Scott Joplin was music for introspection; Debussy's Clair de Lune raw, tragic longing.

Golden light would spill from restaurants I passed. Throaty feminine laughter would mock me. The sounds of friends, and life that goes on, even though I'd want my life to stop, go back, recapture what never was.

I'd shove my hands into my pockets, duck my head, and keep moving. My feet would drag though puddles of molten moonlight like tears.

Fade to black.

Our permanent collection of exotica