Dreaming Of You // If I'm Still Dreaming

[WARNING: Mild adult content below. Read at your own discretion.]

“I don’t know what I want…” Jeanne mumbled to me biting her tongue as I stood by her side in front of the Baker’s display cabinet. I had to admit to myself French bakeries were the cutest in the world, and I know a thing or two about bakeries.

“Just have a cupcake…” She flashed me a glare, but laughed.

“I don’t like cupcakes,” she giggled.

“What?” I snapped. Who doesn’t like cupcakes? I stared at her in disbelief.

“They’re the most twisted form of colonialism,” she smirked. I should have imagined it had something to do with Politics. “But I like cake… And I like those–––she said pointing at some oblong sweet buns covered with fondant icing. We called them ‘éclairs’…”

“‘Éclairs,’” I repeated and she smiled at me.

“Yes, the French version of custard puffs… Well, probably all the way around,” she grinned. I had forgotten that old British-French rivalry. “Those with vanilla custard are my all time favourites, but I also like those with pistachio custard.”

“They’re green…” I muttered.

“And what’s wrong with that?–––Jeanne blurted. As if cupcakes weren’t pretty ridiculous too. It is pastry!”

“Well, let’s have an assorted half a dozen,” I meditated venturing a solution to her dilemma. And they looked really tempting… To hell with my diet. French bakery wasn’t renowned for nothing.

“You surely listened to me when I told you to indulge yourself…” She ironised.

We waited on our ‘café au lait’ sitting at a small wooden table on a corner, far away from the window to go unnoticed. I was holding Jeanne’s hand underneath the table as she laughed from my jokes and sweet nothings. The waiter that brought our coffee beverages seemed quite acquainted to her, so I understood it was her usual place.

Jeanne glowed as a ray of sun was falling over her, highlighting her hair, messily rolled to the side, the buttons of her sky-blue shirt dress dangerously opened over her chest. As I leant towards her I noticed the colour of the garment wasn’t monochrome but a chequered pattern of white and blue threads. The bodice was close-fitting and it accentuated the contour of her torso deliciously. The skirt was tight and short, and as her legs were stretched near me I couldn’t help but take my hand to caress her inner thigh discreetly, moving up. Jeanne laughed, glancing at me mischievously.

I was feeling incredibly comfortable just being there chatting up Jeanne, surrounded by the soft noise of the steam milk frother, the clatter of the cups against the plates, and the metallic sound of the tea spoons clinking on the china. There was something familiar––the scent of bread and baking–– and relaxing on the ambiance, but more importantly, nobody had recognised me yet. I was just another guy sitting on a cafe with his girl. Just Jeanne and me. And it was mesmerising to contemplate her as she fixed her camera Leica getting ready to take some photos at the market. She knew her business. It wasn’t for nothing her father was a professional photographer.

It was a bit chilly outside so as we left the warmth of the bakery Jeanne put on a light, green anorak, and hung the camera to her neck. I was carrying the basket so if we were spotted it would be quite obvious we were together, because even if we were acting casual around each other our attitude was more than suspicious, going to the market at those hours. Did I want to be spotted with Jeanne? What were her thoughts about it? She knew it could happen; she pointed it out to me the previous night, so she was aware herself. Was she OK about it? As we walked towards the Rue Mouffetard I didn’t dare to ask.

Being able to perform daily rituals with Jeanne taught me a lot about her. And if I was mad about her it was just the perfect excuse I needed to become even madder. Jeanne seemed to know exactly what she wanted to eat, so we went directly to buy some cheese. They were many specialised shops, but Jeanne had her favourite, a little store packed with all the cheese you can possibly imagine. The smell was so piercing but amazingly good.

“Bonjour, Jerôme. Tu es très mignon aujourd’hui. Est-ce-que je peux te prendre quelques photos plus tard ?” Jeanne asked to the shopkeeper as soon as we got inside.

“Bien sûr, m’fille,” the elder man answered, smiling candidly at her.

“Est-ce-qu’on pourrait avoir un petit peu de vin et des biscuits ?” She said batting her eyelashes. I had a squint at her. Biscuits? Were we going to buy them or eat them? We just had a more than generous breakfast.

“Tou’ce que t’veux, p’tite Jeanne…” He replied quickly, turning around to get to the back room.

“What was all that?” I inquired.

“He’s bringing some wine and crackers…”

“Wine?–––I snapped. But it is not even eleven in the morning!” She was really something.

“Act as if we were in Spain…” I was absolutely astonished.

“Do Spaniards drink this early in the morning?”

“If necessary…” Jeanne frowned at me. She walked to a display bar. It was for some sort of tasting. “Come here, look, this is my favourite cheese… ‘Camembert au lait cru’…” She said. I walked to her side, dropping the basket at our feet.

“‘Camembert au lait cru,’” I repeated, becoming suddenly excited about the whole experience. Jerôme brought us a wooden board with sliced bread, crackers and grapes, and two glasses of red wine. “Oh, grapes–––I smirked. How appropriate!” Jeanne laughed, cutting a piece of cheese.

“Jerôme has the best Camembert of the entire market. Come on, try it…” She said extending the pointy fork to me. I grabbed the cheese and put it into my mouth. It literally melted and I couldn’t help but smile.

“Hmm, it’s very good…” I claimed.

“Very good?–––Jeanne observed ironically. Haven’t you, English fellow, a professional way to compliment this magnificent cheese?”

“Fine–––I cut short. It’s the most delicious cheese I’ve eaten in all my life.”

“But you had spent your life eating… what? Cheddar? You aren’t a valid parameter,” she mocked me.

“Come on, Cheddar is a great cheese!” Jeanne laughed furiously.

“Est-ce-que tu as entendu ça, Jerôme ?–––she spoke to the shopkeeper. Le Cheddar ! Un grand frommage ! Oh, comme il est mignon !” She cupped my cheek, shaking her head ‘no.’

“Il a besoin d’une saison en France, ton copain !” Jerôme retorted pointing at me.

“What did he say?” I asked, confused.

“That you need a season in France,” she asserted. I wished to see something tinkling in the back of her eye.

“I believe I do…” She laughed, pushing a grape inside my mouth.

“Spaniards say that grapes and cheese taste like a kiss,” she said, coming closer. I wanted to hold her so badly but I refrained myself.

“You know I expect a lot more grapes later…” I remarked cheekily.

As I tasted ‘Mimolet,’ ‘Brie,’ ‘Roquefort,’ ‘Petit fiancé des Pyrenees’ and some others, each of them so different from one another, Jeanne patiently waited to take some photos of Jerôme, as he was concentrated on his work. I couldn’t really tell if French cheese was that much better than English, but I knew for sure there was something unique on her. She was inspiring somehow, being passionate about so many important things.

We left after I repeated to Jerôme the words Jeanne taught me to show my gratitude in French and went to the Butcher’s to buy a fine piece of beef, ‘viande de boeuf.’ By then we had bought fresh bread, Camembert, meat, eggs, and two bottles of red wine, and we were just missing some vegetables and my grapes. As we walked through the people Jeanne was pointing her Leica randomly and shooting from time to time. The street alone was already a full spectacle, little food shops mingled with cafes and restaurants, fish markets with sea food baskets outdoors, wine shops, Florist’s altogether, folkloric characters everywhere.

“Steak tartare…” Jeanne answered when I asked her what we were going to lunch.

“And that is?” By her surprise I knew I sounded as a complete ignorant. She should have thought I’m a chav.

“A dish deeply loved in France–––she said lightly. Raw beef seasoned…”

“Raw beef?–––I stopped on my tracks amidst the crowd. Oh, no, I’m not going to eat raw beef.”

“Have you tried it?” She said curtly.

“No, but…”

“Wouldn’t you try? For me? Jeanne asked all flirty, slipping next to me. Oh, she knew how to manage me.

“Why would you possibly want to eat raw beef?” I blurted.

“I have a craving,” she stated.

“A craving?–––I snapped. Did I get you pregnant?” I carried on in an odd tone. A vertigo sensation had overtaken me.

“You have a strange sense of humour…” She muttered turning away to approach a market vendor to ask his permission to take him a photo.

“I know…” I mumbled, following her as a fool. What was going on with me? I had said to myself I didn’t want to stun her. Craving food is a common thing. It happens to Niall all the time. Jeanne took her pictures and held her hand out to greet the man.

“Even if I weren’t on the pill it’s not my fertile time,” she said a minute later, glancing at me with an inquisitorial look on her face.

“I get it, I’m not that fool,” I murmured near her ear. She giggled. “Why did you agree to have sex with me without protection?” The middle of the street wasn’t the best place to have that conversation but, anyway, it was my cue. Jeanne stopped walking and looked right into my eyes.

“I didn’t want to kill the moment…” She shuddered. A chill ran down my spine. “It was too arousing.” We stood in silence for a single moment because her words turned me completely weak. She did. She enjoyed everything we did together as much as I did. I just wanted to kiss her.

“I’m clean as a rubber duckie,” I joked trying to skirt the issue.

“I know–––she grimaced. So am I.”

“Yes, you seemed well provided.” After all she used to have double protection.

“We took a leap of faith…” She whispered standing closer, her chest almost grazing mine. I glanced down at her cleavage. She was so naturally suggestive.

“I’m glad we did–––I murmured lightly holding her hand. But if you prefer we can go back to the…”

“It is fine by now,” she interrupted me, leaving my side to photograph a family with their puppy Golden Retriever. ‘By now.’ What did she mean by that?

As we went stall by stall looking for the best grapes and the rest of the vegetables I noticed Jeanne carried on with the brand-new acquisition of telling me each name in French. I couldn’t help but wonder: Was she trying to teach me the language or was it a simple coincidence? Between photos and small talks with the vendors she kept mumbling French words at me. I remembered what she had told me just a few days earlier. Nobody has ever learnt French from her… And that was because she was too busy learning something from them…

For a while the idea kept roaming in my mind although I tried hard to push it away and enjoy the stroll and Jeanne’s company. She talked to everybody around and they all seemed to adore her attention. If I had to choose one single word to describe her at that moment I would have chosen ‘mystifying.’ Her mind was so complex but her tastes were so simple; she was thoughtful, hot, funny, deep, and she had me under her thumb. I continued fighting the thought that I was unable to teach her anything because it was too uncomfortable, and I couldn’t help but to feel irretrievably drawn towards her. At some point when we reached the end of the street I just couldn’t manage it anymore.

“Kiss me,” I stated.

“What?”

“Kiss me–––I insisted. Right now. On this very street,” I demanded.

“Why?” What sort of answer was that?

“Because I want you to,” I said in an attempt to impose myself to her will. It had worked before.

“Somebody could be watching…” Only Pat was watching from a prudent distance.

“I don’t care,” I mumbled trying to grab her, but she dodged me.

“But I do–––she asserted. I don’t want to distress your fans.”

“Why?” Why would she care so much?

“Because I love them,” she stated. Her answer let me perplexed.

“I love them too–––I said. But kiss me.”

“I won’t.” Jeanne started to walk away.

“Kiss me,” I carried on, following her.

“They are right about you,” she smirked, stopping again. She couldn’t resist me. “You are a five-year-old. You’re exhausting.”

“Kiss me,” I repeated one more time. I knew she loved those games and she had begun to surrender.

“Wait until we get home,” she pointed out to me.

“I don’t want to wait–––I blurted. Kiss me.”

“Why does it have to be right now?” She said with a hint of exasperation.

“Because the more I look at you with your camera, speaking to everybody with that kindness, the more I realise I’ve never seen something as beautiful as you and the more I want to kiss you,” I muttered in my huskiest tone. Jeanne glanced at me dead serious.

“Come here,” she said as she took me by the arm and walked towards the fence of a church pulling from me as if I actually was a toddler. We went to the entrance and she pushed me inside. I was able to hear mass from behind the thin door, as we stood alone in a dark and narrow wooden antechamber. My back hit the wall, the basket falling to the floor, and Jeanne came to rest her body on me, bringing her mouth close. I had never kissed anybody in a church before. The situation was so thrilling I roughly swapped positions with her and I crashed my mouth on her lips grabbing her by her hips, moving my lips so she could part hers and allow me to slide my tongue inside her mouth. We started to kiss eagerly, Jeanne’s hands reaching for my neck. I sucked her tongue and her hands ran through my back. Our bodies slipped together and her leg came between mine. We instinctively started to move against one another. I groaned and put my hands on her buttocks to set the rhythm, the pleasure spreading quickly. But before things got too steamy for a public place––and a consecrated one––we pulled off, staring into each other’s eyes. I noticed my hard-on tightly pressed on her inner thigh. We were on a church, for God’s sake. We both giggled foolishly. “You stare a lot,” Jeanne murmured.

“How shall I not?” I asked, cupping her jaw between my hands as we stood a bit apart.

“I’ve been so watched because of my work but nobody has ever looked at me with such insistence…–––she gasped. I got your eyes sealed in the back of my mind ever since London…” It sounded as if she was revealing something sorely personal. With words like those my hard-on wasn’t going anywhere.

“I just knew it that day…” I said quietly. Jeanne lightly frowned, pulling away but I made her stay close. “Yes. I don’t remember a thing but here I am, many years later looking at you in the exact same way. I can’t take my eyes off of you, Jeanne, but you already noticed that. I don’t even try anymore. Would you want me to start trying again?” I spoke slowly, trying to mean every word.

“Don’t–––she replied in an extreme soft tone. I haven’t said it bothers me. I’m just trying to understand…” There was nothing to understand. Everything was clear as water.

“I think it is pretty obvious but if you want to I could put it into words.”

“You may try and do that…” Jeanne snickered.

“Nobody has remotely captured my mind as you have, Jeanne–––I whispered bending closer. Before you I never paid attention to an elbow, a shadow cast on the ground, the sound of a single letter. It is as if you had opened a whole new dimension to me that drives me this absolutely insane,” I said shaking my head ‘no.’ In that moment the church organ began to sound. Mass was finishing.

“Let’s go home.”

–.–.–

Notes

OK, here is one chapter I loved to write. I hope you felt the same enthusiasm than me :) Anyone want to share your thougths about Jeanne?

You know you are curious. You want to know what will happen. Next chapter: Harry at Louvre museum. You don't want to miss that. Love you all, lovely, amazingly clever readers! <3

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