Dreaming Of You // If I'm Still Dreaming

“Things never happen the way we expect to,” Jeanne says pensively as we walk through the streets towards an unknown destination I have a presentiment to be her home. I glance at her and it’s almost as if she were speaking to herself. “I’ve learnt that lesson from your great compatriot Charles Dickens,” she remarks, glimpsing at me and lightly smiling.

“We English are quite clever,” I observe, chuckling to deflect the fact I don’t have any idea of what she’s talking about. Why didn’t I pay more attention in school?

“So, was this your first time escaping a mob not caused by you?” She asks, grinning mischievously.

“Everyday you learn something new…” I mumble, glancing forward, as I slide my hands into my pockets.

“And did you like it?” She says as she leaps childishly by my side. I cannot help but chuckle to the surreal subject of her enthusiasm.

“It surely puts things into perspective…” I say and she grins. I stop at the traffic light and take my sunglasses off. I glimpse at her and she glancing at her shoes as if she were thinking. She turns her face towards me; I am practically staring at her the entire time.

“Do you need that?–––she says quietly. To put things into perspective…”

“It’s easy to get carried away by this sort of life–––I reply, meditating about it. Adoration is quite surreal and works strangely on your mind.” I glance across the street and behind some trees I see a tall, ancient rampart and some sort of gothic mansion. The tube station nearby states ‘Cluny-La Sorbonne.’ So she lives around her college. The light finally changes and we begin to cross towards its direction.

“At least you are conscious about it…” She mumbles.

“I am–––I assert. But that doesn’t mean I manage it properly a hundred percent of the time,” I say in irony.

“Like right now,” she retorts as I look at her curiously.

“I thought I was managing it pretty well right now,” I say, giggling, and while I speak she steps confidently above a tube grate at our feet.

At that very moment, a gust of hot air emerges from the ground, blowing her skirt off. I stop dead contemplating the sudden gift of her knees and thighs as she laughs placing a hand over her mouth and rushes to the end. She doesn’t even try to prevent her skirt for raising upper. On her final spring I catch a sight of her buttocks and her nude, minimal knickers. I’m absurdly paralysed looking into space as the hot gust continues to surge through me up to my face. I force myself to turn my attention towards her in the distance and I see she’s grimacing at me, amused. I walk towards her amongst the steam. If I’d speak right now my voice would probably sound ridiculous. She remains silent too, looking down but discreetly glimpsing at me from time to time.

"You already knew I wasn’t a fan, don’t you?” She finally says breaking the silence in a serious tone. I think I might’ve been holding my breath all this time as I release it in a sonorous exhalation.

“I had my suspicions when we found out about your researcher’s position at La Sorbonne…” I speak not glancing at her.

“It’s this very building, you know,” she states, pointing at her left. I look at the facade and majestic entrances. “It’s a very renowned place. Would you like to visit the courtyard?” She says, grinning. Is it here where she brought me? To her university? I’m sure this place means a great deal to her but I’m a bit disappointed. “Come–––she carries on, gesturing at me with her hand. No one will recognise you here…” I laugh at what she implies. We pass through a dark wooden door and after a few spaces we reach the main court.

“I love the cobblestones–––I say glancing around, amazed, but for some reason focusing my attention on the floor. It’s an outstanding place. It looks a lot like Oxford.”

“Oh, our Nemesis…–––she grins but corrects herself. Our archenemy…” She knew I might not know what she meant. I feel as a bit of an arse around her. She’s practically a PhD and me, well, I haven’t even finished Secondary School. “Why did you come to meet me anyway?–––she asks tilting her head to the side, surprising me with her sudden change of subject. Did you have something to prove to yourself?"

“To prove me?–––I groan. Like what?”

“That you can get any girl you want…” She speaks directly into my eyes. I can tell she doesn’t feel intimidated by me even under the most arid topics.

“Is that what you think of me?” I ask, slightly dejected by her words.

“I don't know. That’s why I’m asking you–––she explains herself. Now that you are in front of me I don’t need to imagine anymore. It’s just you.” Just me.

“I’ve told you I liked what you wrote–––I say trying to mean every word. I wanted to meet you. Nothing more.”

“But why were you so cheeky before?” She asks in a lower tone as we walk through the building undoing our previous steps to regain the street.

“I don’t know why I’m like that–––I admit lightly shaking my head. Sometimes I just do it… Like a reflex.” She raises an eyebrow to me.

We come across a square of buttonwoods with numerous fountains, surrounded by many bohemian cafes with yellow chairs. Air is fresh here. I didn’t know this part of town at all, only by her writing. It has a complete different spirit. It seems older, more chaotic and narrower than average tidy Paris. I hope she lives around here. It definitely suits her.

I smile at her but as she smiles me back something in the distance catches her attention. Without speaking a word she graciously runs up towards a bench where I see a pregnant woman sitting with one hand on her forehead and the other tightly grabbing the leash of a tiny pug. It seems she feels dizzy. Jeanne kneels down at her feet and talks to her as if she just knew her, trying to comfort her. She takes a lolly from her clutch and gives it to the woman and without even looking at me she stands up and walks towards one of the many cafes. A minute later she returns with a waiter, who carries a glass of water. She kindly speaks to the woman, who drinks the water. Jeanne talks to the waiter, who’s giving the woman air with a napkin. I wonder if I have to get involved. I don’t even speak the language. My French is such a bad joke. And obviously Jeanne can manage herself. She places a hand on the woman’s shoulder while talking still to the waiter, who smiles, pleased. She insists on something as the woman grins at her and refuses with her head. Jeanne bends down to pet the dog, too comfortable even to move. Finally she glances at me and smiles and I can’t help but smile her back as she begins to walk towards me. The waiter continues there to check on the woman. Feeling a bit guilty I have to confess to myself this is not the way I’ve pictured French people all these years. They seem so civil towards each other.

Jeanne returns by my side as if nothing had happened, but I’m still impressed by the scene I just witnessed. There are still caring people on this earth, and the only one indifferent around here seems to be me. I should have gone to check on the woman as the waiter did. I feel so self-absorbed. I consider myself a good person, but in everything she does Jeanne surpasses me. She’s spontaneous, but I no longer have that quality, ever since the fame, even if I insist on thinking I’m the same person than before. It’s impossible to remain unaltered with this sort of life. After a brief moment she takes another lolly from her clutch, and unwrapping it she shoves it into her mouth. What is it that she’s trying to do to me?

“When I was in high school I fancied a guy…” Jeanne begins to speak slowly, facing forward and playing with the lolly between her lips, as we take a stroll around the square.

“Are you going to tell me about the guy I remind you of?” I interrupt her, slightly annoyed. This moment is so perfect as it is I don’t want to ruin it talking about some guy she was in love with; it’s not supposed to be about anybody else but us.

“No, let me finish–––she states. Why do you jump into conclusions?” Her tongue circles the lolly and I don’t know what to do not to stare at that pink feast.

“I'm sort of like that…” I mumble, feeling as the biggest fool on the face of the planet for so many reasons.

“Well, don’t–––she observes in a bossy way I like. When I was in high school I fancied a guy. Every break I used to run to his classroom just to see him… It was enough, you know. A few minutes, everyday…"

“Yeah. Been there too,” I quietly remark, finally turning away.

“When I started to research about you, I went through Tumblr for hours trying to find out why your fans were so impelled towards you, what was that you made them feel that was so special–––she explains with her hands holding her clutch behind her back with the lolly. I particularly remember one day I watched photos of you for about four hours in a row, on a blog entirely dedicated to you, as there are thousands. I couldn’t quit it even if I wanted to. I was physically unable to do it. I felt as intoxicated,” she giggles looking into my eyes. I raise my eyebrows to her in surprise. “When I was finally capable of dropping my computer off–––she carries on–––I was feeling exactly the same way I felt in high school when I was looking at that guy, but multiplied by ten,” she says emphatically. My body is tingling entirely. “I was tipsy, high on you. I was twenty-four years old but I could positively declare anywhere I was in love with you, and it lasted for hours afterwards–––she states in defiance. Imagine the same process on a mind that’s not entirely formed, that hasn’t experienced broken heart before, that hasn’t the perspective of time. It is like a drug poured directly into your brain.” She stares at me with a severe glance as if she were trying to understand an unfathomable matter. “But I don’t seem to be able to figure out if it’s just you or the paraphernalia. Having all this marketing and promotion working for you must help you to make them feel as they do–––she mumbles, turning away. It is like an Ouroboros…A snake biting its own tail. But what came first, the guy or the marketing?”

“What do you mean by that?” I ask a bit confused about her speech. I almost lost it between the lolly and ‘in love with you.’

“You sell sexual frustration in order to make girls consume products related to One Direction,” she snaps in a harsh tone, her eyes stabbing into mine.

“I’m just a boy with a dream…” I’m able to say.

“But you play a part in a bigger picture now,” she observes, turning around the corner of the street and throwing her remaining lolly to a bin, a gesture I contemplate with regret. She was so bloody hot sucking on it.

“Do I have to feel bad about it?” I mumble.

“That is between you and your conscience,” she asserts and stops in front of a building. I glance up. “I’m just explaining what moved me to write my thesis about your phenomenon, what had fascinated me about you…”

“That and the fact I look just like some guy you used to love,” I retort sarcastically.

“Maybe I still love him…” She says, startling me, as she leans against the wall near the door.

“Why do you say that?” I snap, almost hurt.

“Because I look at you and become all flustered,” she mutters in the huskiest tone, glancing at me from the side. She’s resting a foot on the wall and her head is slightly tilted to the left.

“Perhaps it’s just me, you know–––I grin. All this time thinking about me, looking at my pictures non-stop, writing those scenes about me…–––I say getting closer. Maybe you developed a crush on me. You said it before, you won’t mind to sleep with me…” I murmur, resting my open hand on the wall, near her head.

“I can’t fuck the subject of my thesis–––she asserts quietly. And besides, haven’t you listened to anything I just said? I almost despise everything you represent.”

“I’m not that guy in the media,” I blurt, stepping back and glancing away.

“Part of the guy they’re selling is actually you–––she says harshly. And you participate willingly in the whole plot. You let them borrow your image, your voice, to take money from those girls.”

“You make it sound like evil,” I grumble looking intensely into her eyes. She holds my gaze.

“It is evil to me–––she mutters. Look at me: French, La Sorbonne’s student, with political awareness, left-wing, anti-capitalist, feminist, involved in the student movement. I’m the complete opposite to your world.” She speaks with such passion I feel some strange sensation swarming me.

“That doesn’t make you any less attractive to me,” I murmur, returning my hand to the wall.

“You have read too much of my smut…” She says, her eyes fixed on mine.

“Maybe…–––I reply. But we have something in common,” I assert, lightly bending down. She keeps the same provocative attitude.

“And what is that?” She asks playfully.

“For some reason we find each other fascinating…” I mumble in my raspier tone as I pin her against the wall, approaching her a bit.

“This is so strange–––she stutters. And it’s not normal.”

“Opposites attract,” I say.

“For a while–––she retorts. We are not magnets…” We both lightly smirk.

“Are you looking for the love of your life?”

“That is absurd–––she answers. Of course I’m not.” Her expression is somewhere between amused and offended.

“Then who cares?” I insist, leaning further.

“I can’t fuck the subject of my thesis…” She says tremulously.

“You already told me that,” I mumble, suddenly crashing my lips onto hers.

–.–.–

Notes

Oh, my. That did sound a bit radical, but not everything is as simple as it seems. There's a reason for Jeanne telling those things. By now all I can say is that she's taking the pulse of the situation. Have patience, stick around and it will be explained. Remember, this is fiction, and not meant to be conventional. If you don't like it, just pass it by. Don't hate it.

Will she kick Harry's arse? Much more on the next update very soon.

Thank you so much for reading, everybody, but especially my lovely friends @Morgan_Who,@Love_Life3, @KevinThePigeon, and @afriendofjenny! @mikkemille, I hope to ear from you soon. Keep your comments coming! They keep me going.

Love you all! <3