Deemathings III

Pale white snow drifted in slow steady spirals, blanketing the quiet Parisian streets. Occasional snorts of car engines rang through the barren white streets, and collars were turned upwards, protecting those unfortunate enough exposed to the biting, unforgiving wind. 

Emily exhaled shakily, digging her fingers deeper into her grass green cashmere sweater. She glanced at Myles, who was striding purposefully along side of her, his long woolen black coat snapping behind him. “Y-you know,” she chattered, her teeth clattering against each other, “nice guys usually o-offer their coats to girls in the cold  . . . Sweet . . . isn’t it?”  Myles made a noncommercial noise in the back of his throat, and stared straight ahead of him. Emily narrowed her eyes.

“That was a hint, Myles,” she scowled, rubbing her left arm, “give-me-your-jacket.”

Myles snorted, flicking light particles of snow from the collar of his sleeve. “No,” he said.

Emily scoffed. “Please give me your jacket,” she repeated, crossing her arms. Myles, unnervingly unfazed by her tone, continued to walk forwards, taking him a full ten seconds to acknowledge the fact that Emily wasn’t trudging beside him. He turned around, raising a paternalistic eyebrow. “Come along, Emily,” he said patiently, waiting for her to catch up.

“Yeah. Okay. But your jacket. I need it.”

Myles tightened the scarf around his neck. “You don’t need my coat you want my coat, and don’t even dare tell me that I haven’t told you to pack heavy-material clothing before arriving here.” He sighed, swiping a hand through his dark curls. Emily bit her lip. “I’m British,” she protested, “this is o-our normal weather.”

“Of course.”

 Frosted stray leaves crunched under the sole of Myles’ boot and an icy wind whistled in his ears. The moon shown luminous, faint stars burning weakly in the atmosphere. Flames flickered intensely in old-fashioned street lamps. Emily sighed restlessly and rushed towards him, shoving her hands inside her jean pockets. A couple hurried past the pair and the man glanced at Emily sympathetically before throwing Myles a look of pure disgust, securing his arm around his mate’s waist as they made their way towards the parking lot.

“N'avez-vous pas honte! Donner à la femme de votre veste vous ane`!” he shouted before making haste across the street. Myles’ mouth twitched slightly but he didn’t say anything.

Emily kneaded her eyebrows, pinching her now frozen ears. “What’d he say?” she asked. Her voice echoed against the empty street.

Myles shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“He thought you were an asshole, d-didn’t he?” she pressed, the corner of her lips curling upwards.

“il était le cretin,” muttered Myles, feeling slightly irritable.

Emily huffed, a puff of transparent smoke materializing momentarily just before fading into the night. “N-not exactly sure of what you just said, but I’m pretty sure it was an insult,” she said. She hugged her stomach tightly, and then asked, “How long do we have to walk to find a damn taxi? I’m cold and tired and we’ve been walking for two hours now. And I’m famished. And I’m cold.”

“Don’t complain. Weren’t you the one who was always opposed to taking taxis in foreign cities? What was it that you said, if my memory serves correct? ‘Myles, I’m opposed to taking taxis in foreign cities?’” He drawled, particularly taking pleasure in the glower that wiped the smirk clean off her face. He craned his neck and spotted a mass of vague shuffling figures clad in dark colors by a silver pyramid structure.

“Yeah w-well, those might not have been my exact words,” she grumbled, rubbing the numbness from her face.

Myles rolled his eyes. “There’s the Louvre, we’ll be able to take a taxi from there and then back to the hotel.”

He noticed Emily cheer at the thought of getting into a toasty warm taxi and smirked. “So the tourist trip is over, I presume?” she asked brightly, practically skipping to the museum.

Myles canted his head. “And I thought you enjoyed learning about other cultures. You’re becoming more and more disappointing by the minute, Emily, soon to morph into one of those giggling air heads 

whose only fervency in life is learning how to properly shade their eyelids.”

Emily considered this. “Well, it takes one to know one.”

Myles opened his mouth, and then closed it, choosing not to argue over something so trivial (his temper would not permit it, he would reason with himself).

They neared the parking lot of the Louvre, and Myles allowed his eyes to sweep the rears of customary taxicabs.

“Wait- what’s the French word for cabbie again?” Emily asked restively, wandering towards a stationary taxi car. Myles ignored her and marched towards a black and white striped taxicab. He filled the driver with scant details about their destination and the French man nodded once. He glanced at Emily’s light cashmere sweater, and then raised an eyebrow at Myles’ thick wooly coat.

“pas beaucoup d'un homme à femmes, êtes-vous?” he smiled crookedly, climbing into the driver’s seat before Myles could answer.

Myles, silently fuming, slammed the door of the back seat and vowed that he would never tip any French man as long as his long life would permit him. Emily made herself comfortable in the cracking leather seats, and rested the side of her head against the windowsill, which proved unwise since the window burned ice. She cursed, turning to Myles, who instinctively shook his head; knowing perfectly well that she knew he knew she knew that Myles cherished his personal space, and would grow exceedingly uncomfortable if she were to do something absurd . . . like rest her head on his chest. 

Myles paled at the idea and turned his nose to the window, trying to pretend he hadn’t heard Emily’s 

chaste sigh of disgruntlement.

The engine sputtered, coughed, and then rumbled to life, causing the car to lurch into motion. Nighttime whirled into a blur, and they were off.

After twenty or so minutes, still half an hour away from the Four Seasons Hotel, Emily drifted to a deep sleep, invading Myles’ personal bubble by latching herself onto his side. The driver glanced at the mirror and smirked at Myles’ too obvious blush. Emily buried her face into his chest, and Myles could smell the faint, sweet, nectarine fragrance of her perfume. He cleared his throat uncomfortably and stared miserably out the window.

“yeux sur la route,” Myles mumbled irritably at the driver, squirming awkwardly in his seat. Emily protested and slid a hand under his coat, and Myles gulped. The driver chuckled, thoroughly amused, and obeyed his customer.

“bénir l'amour des jeunes,” he murmured in response.

Myles glared at the driver before gingerly plucking Emily’s hand from his chest and dropped it at a safe distance away from him. Emily snorted and turned sleeping positions, shifting into a more agreeable position a seat far from a very relieved Myles. She sighed deeply and then wrapped her arms tightly around her legs, a shivering bundle of light night wear in thin leather boots.

She truly is freezing, Myles thought with a quirk of an eyebrow.

He sighed, subdued, and extracted his coat from his body, draping it carefully over Emily, who immediately ceased quivering from the cold. He unwrapped his scarf from his neck and swathed Emily’s neck with it, trying his very best to ignore the amused nod of approval the driver gave him.

Myles didn’t really mind the cold, and seeing as there was more than twenty minutes left to the ride, he made himself comfortable and closed his eyes, willing himself to relax.

“You win,” he whispered, before falling to sleep.

***

The striped black and white taxi rolled into the Four Season’s gateway, wheels slowing to a smooth and steady stop The boy, the driver noticed, eventually drifted to sleep, a look of pure content that hadn’t been apparent when he was first awake smoothing the premature creases on his forehead. The girl had rested her delicate head in the crook of his neck, and the boy his chin on the crown of her head. The driver peered at them more closely, and was pleased to find that the couple’s hands were clasped tightly together; the boy’s thumb gently caressing the girl’s palm. They looked serene, besotted even.

And so it was with a heavy and unwilling heart that the taxi driver woke the couple up from their solicitous slumber.