Romancing the Dark in the City of Light by Ann Jacobus Read Free Book Online

at her watch, “we shall discuss your father next time.”
    “Oh.”
    Dr. Garnier scribbles more notes. “Are you taking your antidepressants?”
    “Uh, yeah,” Summer lies. She’s tried several kinds and they all suck. She didn’t even bother getting the French prescription filled last week. She’s not big on pills other than occasionally for recreation. Liquids are another matter.
    “I think you are an excellent candidate for them now, during this time of transition. I’ll give you another prescription after the holidays . Do you take walks?”
    “Not if I can avoid it.”
    “Consider it. Paris is a lovely city for walking,” she says proudly. “It is also my prescription. Dress warmly. Wear trainers and walk for twenty minutes.” She means tennis shoes.
    “Okay. Why?”
    “It stimulates the system, makes you exercise, releases good chemicals in the brain. Helps you sleep. About our appointment next week?”
    Summer rises to go. She needs a nap after all this work. “Thanks,” she says. “Oh, shoot, I can’t make it next week because of the play. And it goes on for a while. I can call to make another appointment when I better know my schedule?” Shrinks she’s known in the US aren’t so bossy or overdressed. Plus, she has no intention of coming back.
    Dr. Garnier pauses, but says, “ Tr è s bien .”

TWELVE
    PAIS is closed for Thanksgiving. Mom is having a dinner party this evening and Summer plans to avoid it. She’s just returned from the large Monoprix nearby, wheeling the blue plaid plastic shopping caddy heavy with bottles to sustain her through the coming weeks. She’s going to pass all her classes come hell or high water but she’ll need a little help from her good friend Vodka.
    The checkout lady didn’t even look twice. Vive la France.
    Her cell phone dings with a text from Moony:
    Hunting props at Les Puces. M é tro Porte de Clignancourt 13:30. Come with?
    She texts back fast as white lightning:
    Okie-dokie. See you then!
    The day brightens like a meteor shower.
     
     
    Summer descends with determination into the M é tro, but her breathing speeds to panting, and the crowds swell and threaten to suffocate her. Bad trainophobia. She about-faces and climbs back up to ground level, leaning against a news kiosk until she’s steady.
    She finds an ATM, withdraws some euros, and hails a taxi. Then waits for Moony outside the M é tro entrance near a bedraggled caf é and a phone card store. She’s so happy he invited her, but her palms are sweaty, and she can’t stop fidgeting. It’s gray, cold, and drizzling. North African immigrants stroll by in distinctive long clothes and head ware. Summer uncorks her flask and takes a deep pull. Liquid courage. Then she pops a piece of cinnamon gum.
    Three young men, Arab gangbangers by their tracksuits, bling, and attitude, are eyeing her. The French call them racaille. She tries to ignore them but clenches her teeth. These North African guys think a woman by herself is against the law. That it means you’re a prostitute.
    One of them walks closer to her and says something; she has no idea what. “Go away,” she says, looking him in the eye.
    He makes rude kissing noises at her.
    She gives him the finger knowing full well that the gesture is much more shocking in France. His friends hoot.
    The guy’s furious. “Fook you.”
    He picked the wrong girl to diss. “Fookez VOUS and your oily friends. You seriously want a piece of me?” Her mouth has gone dry so she spits her gum on the ground near his shoe. His track pants are tucked into his socks.
    He hesitates. Confusion and fear play in his eyes, Summer notes coolly. Definitely not what he expected.
    Poor guy. He has no idea that she has nothing to lose.
    He takes two quick steps toward her as if to compensate for his delay. More skinny homies, looking amused, slink up and surround them. Now he’s feeling braver and rattles off a bunch of chipped and broken-sounding French, an ugly sneer on