Amy and I met in front of the hotel where we were both living at the time. We were young then. She was a music student and I had a neat little business selling cocaine. She looked so cute in her tight black pants while gazing at my Bugatti.
“Great car, huh?” she remarked when I nonchalantly moved to stand next to her.
“Would you like to have a ride?”
“This is your car?”
“Now?” I said.
I had a large white one bedroom that overlooked the cobblestoned square, where the intoxicating perfume from a row of old lindens drifted up on to my terrace. She had a faded closet-sized studio in the back, with a paint-chipped slanted ceiling. It had in it the smallest single bed and a piano. Books and stacks of music were piled in unruly columns on the chocolate-colored floor, and an image of Robert Redford cut from a magazine was taped to the wall.
We must have come off as idiots in our attempt to push our lust aside with ridiculous small talk about things neither one of us could have cared less about. Who were we trying to kid? She ended up being the bold one as she unzipped her fly and sauntered over to the window to pull down the shade.
Consummately enamored with Paris, she breathed her French as if she was trudging up a hill. She styled herself a gamine and let her mousy brown hair fall loose and long past her round shoulders.
She was a wild little monkey. Instead of retreating to the bathroom to take care of herself like other women I knew, she would insert her diaphragm while lying on the bed. On her back with the sheets kicked to the floor, she’d smile and wink at me while I waited...