Le Temps Nous Appartient by Scott Bassis

Manuela and Louis first encountered the “yellow vests” as Louis drove a rented car to Paris from Lille, where they had celebrated Christmas with his family. An unmanned toll booth an hour outside Paris was haphazardly wrapped in duct tape. Always one to respect the rules, Louis still tried to slip his credit card into the slot.

“Glued shut,” he grimaced. He put his card back into his wallet. The car behind him honked. He drove on.

Upon spotting the “yellow vests,” Manuela’s stomach filled with dread. Twenty or so had set up camp. Picket signs were propped up with words like “révolution,” “injustice” and “Macron.” A French flag blew in the wind. When a “yellow vest” approached her side of the car, she let out a frightened yelp.

“It’s okay,” Louis assured her. “They don’t care about us. Good thing I went with a cheap car.” Louis waved his hand, declining to roll down the window. The “yellow vest” backed away deferentially. He held a clipboard. He was in his fifties or sixties. It was impossible to imagine him becoming violent, destroying property. Her eyes scanned the group. It was a diverse mix. They were white, black and olive-skinned. A handful were women.

“What does vandalizing a toll booth accomplish?” Louis sneered. She shrugged. Over the last few days, Louis and his family had frequently ridiculed the “yellow vests.” Though she didn’t speak French, she grasped the gist of what they said. She was more curious about the protesters than contemptuous.

“When will they stop?” she asked. She watched them vanish in the rearview mirror.

“Who knows? It’s not about a tax anymore. They’re angry. They want more than what they have. Instead of trying to better themselves, they blame the world,” he asserted. She rolled her eyes. They’d had this debate ad nauseam. He came from a poor family, worked hard and was now rich. He felt anyone could do the same. She came from a poor family, worked hard and was still poor. She could blame her artistic aspirations, which led to her becoming an art teacher, a job imperiled each time her school’s budget was cut. Driven by more material aims, he was a partner at a financial consulting firm.

“Let me guess, the world is to blame. They’re right to smash storefront windows, graffiti landmarks,” he snorted.

“I didn’t say that. I’m just saying, maybe their anger is justified. What if causing destruction is the only way to be noticed?” she pondered.

“My little anarchist,” he laughed. She scowled, irked by his patronizing tone.

“Obviously, society needs order,” she muttered. Nonetheless, she couldn’t read the news without getting incensed, wanting to effect change. A nation’s leader should not lie freely and maliciously. There should be no bigotry. Children should not be abused. There was little she could do, however, to alter current affairs or human nature. She had to live in this world, abide by its laws, stomach its atrocities.

The world could be beautiful too. She hadn’t realized it until she met Louis. Three years ago, she was sketching in Central Park, a favorite pastime in good weather. He complimented her skill. He was handsome, slim, with piercing, blue eyes. Despite his salt and pepper hair, he looked younger than his forty-one years. She was distrustful at first. She was thirty then, and had already given up on love. Her childhood had left her damaged; she pushed away even the men she liked.

Javier was much on her mind in the early days of her and Louis’ relationship. She remembered him whenever pessimism and self-doubt crept in. In a sense, Javier, her first love, had made loving Louis possible. Of course, her feelings for Javier and Louis weren’t the same. By now, she knew Louis utterly. For instance, she knew he intended to propose on this trip. She had realized it last month, when she spied him swiping a ring from her dresser to use as a model. She knew he planned to ask her on Montmartre, her favorite place in Paris.

She and Javier had never gone on a date. Objectively speaking, he was little more than a stranger. Still, not only had he brought her and Louis together, he had saved her life. To her mind, that meant her love for Javier was no less real. Her love for Louis had developed gradually. She fell in love with Javier the first time she heard his name.

*

She was a high school senior at P.S. 131 in the Bronx. She had just received her acceptance letter to Warren University, along with a full need-based scholarship. Although it was a prestigious school, she barely cared. She was convinced her future held only misery. She hoped not to be alive much longer.

Her mother was a drunk; she kept Smirnoff on her nightstand and didn’t leave her bed some days. She couldn’t remember her father, but his absence had scarred her less than the presence of Hector, her mother’s ex-boyfriend. Hector was around for five years, starting when she was seven. At six, she was a carefree, chatty, remarkably well-adjusted girl, given her circumstances. Then, she hardly spoke. She avoided meeting anyone’s eyes. She had no friends. Any human interaction distressed her.

“Manuela, congratulations!” Mr. Alvarez called out, spotting her down the hall. He was her English teacher, a new hire at the school. He wrote her recommendation letter, suggested what colleges to apply to, even reviewed her applications.

“I read it in the newsletter. I’m so proud of you,” he said, walking up to her. He clasped her shoulder. She shrank back, as she did whenever anyone touched her.

“Thanks,” she mumbled. At first, she wondered if he desired her, and that was why he was going to such trouble. However, she realized he was gay when he asked the class to write their “visceral reaction” as he played Mariah Carey’s “Fantasy” on his CD player.

“You’ll blossom there, I know it. All your teachers agree, you have such potential. You get straight A’s. Tenisha, I mean Ms. Jones, your art teacher, says you’ve got exceptional talent. You just need…” He trailed off. She lifted her eyes momentarily, catching sight of his scowl. She was pathetic. She was weird. She was crazy. She knew it. He didn’t have to say it. He tactfully abandoned the subject.

“I had a student who went to Warren. It was when I taught in Jackson Heights. It’s funny; he reminds me so much of you. You wanted to lift his head up, straighten his posture, pry open his mouth, buy him a decent outfit…” Sensing he was being unkind, he stopped himself again. “His name’s Javier Guzman. You might meet him. He’ll be a junior next year,” he said offhandedly.

“I have to go,” she said. She knew she sounded rude. She didn’t mean to. Everything she said always came out wrong.

“Oh, okay,” he said, nonplussed. As she hurried to class, she wondered if he finally realized that his efforts to help her were futile. She wouldn’t “blossom” anywhere. She was more like a weed than a flower, unsightly, unwanted and annoyingly resistant to dying. Misguided as he was, she couldn’t dismiss everything he said. She never forgot that name, “Javier Guzman.” The moment she heard it, she felt less alone in the world.

*

She and Louis arrived in Paris in the early evening. After strolling through the Marais, where Louis had booked their hotel, they dined at a small bistro. Both were eager to begin the relaxing, carefree part of their vacation. They overate, overdrank and slept late. In the morning, they walked to Champs-Éysées, where Louis had made a brunch reservation. It was at an upscale restaurant, with crystal chandeliers and tuxedoed waiters. The maître d’ apologized profusely for the taped up, rock-sized hole in the window they were seated beside.

“You’ll order the eggs benedict with crab,” she pronounced after a cursory glance at the menu. They chuckled. She could always guess his order. She knew his habits so well.

“Oeufs bénédicte au crabe. You must practice your French. My mom got on my case for not teaching you,” he scolded her facetiously.

“You tried, remember? It went about as well as your Spanish lessons,” she smirked.

“I gave up after something I said to the porter made him look like he would punch me,” he recalled.

“I don’t know what you meant to say, but it sounded like, ‘the light’s not fixed, you neutered dog,’” she said, shaking her head.

“I said ‘thanks, but our other light’s out now,’” he frowned. They laughed.

Suddenly, it occurred to her that her whole life was set. They were completely content and at ease with each other. Soon, they would be engaged, then married. He wanted children. She had come around to the idea. Once pregnant, she would stop working. She could focus on her art. She could do that forever. Of course, something unforeseen could always happen, but unless it was earthshattering, their future was secure.

“Le temps nous appartient!”

They turned to see a line of “yellow vests” marching among the traffic, chanting the same words over and over, punctuated by the beeps of surrounding cars.

“The time is ours,” Louis translated with a scowl.

“It’s Thursday,” she huffed, indignant at the intrusion. The “yellow vests” had officially restricted their Paris rallies to Saturdays. Perhaps it was a fringe group; there weren’t many, a dozen or so. She gazed at them to see if they looked different from those she had seen yesterday. She gasped.

“What’s wrong?” Louis asked.

“I’ve seen a ghost,” she almost answered. How could it be him? He wasn’t even French. Yet, there Javier was, shouting, pumping his fist in the air. She wasn’t mistaken. Not a day passed that she didn’t remember his face.

“I have to go,” she said. Avoiding Louis’ eyes, she stood. The waiter had taken her coat. She didn’t have time to retrieve it. Unwilling to lose Javier again, she ran outside.

*

The first time she saw Javier was during the summer before college. There was an online directory of all the students enrolled at Warren. A photo accompanied each name, even hers, the one she had submitted with her application. He was very thin. His eyes were black and melancholy. His shoulders were slumped. He had a cowlick. Despite how pitiful he looked, he had handsome features.

She gazed at his photo all the time. She came to believe they were meant for each other. She was pretty too, even with her stringy hair and ill-fitting clothes. She imagined the future they would share. They wouldn’t have to talk. They would feel no shame for all the social nuances they didn’t know. They could just kiss and hold each other, be unselfconscious at last.

A week into classes, she was waiting on the buffet line in the cafeteria. She turned to grab a fork. Noticing Javier beside her, she let out a gasp. It didn’t make sense. Yet, she knew she wasn’t wrong. By now, she saw his face each time she closed her eyes.

He was dressed entirely in black, but for silver chains crisscrossing his chest. His sleeves were fishnet, baring veiny biceps. His cowlick had been joined by a dozen more, sticking up on all sides. His eyes were framed with eyeliner, and ablaze with anger.

“What?” he snarled, revealing a silver stud pierced through his tongue. She was gawking.

She dropped her tray, spilling water everywhere. With a contemptuous grunt, he grabbed a hamburger. Humiliated, she ran out of the cafeteria. She told herself that she was crazy. Javier was nothing like her, nobody was. He wouldn’t love her, no one could.

As she crossed the street to her dorm, she contemplated jumping in front of an oncoming truck. Death seemed the only escape now from her loneliness. She let it speed by. There was no rush. She could still kill herself tomorrow. That thought always managed to console her.

*

She ran into the street, nearly into a speeding car. She jumped back onto the sidewalk. She gazed towards the “yellow vests.” They were half a block ahead.

“Javier!” she shouted. He didn’t turn around. “It’s Manuela Perez!” For a moment, she was afraid he wouldn’t remember her. He glanced back over his shoulder.  He stopped. He turned to her. He leapt onto the sidewalk.

She strode up to him. He was still handsome in an off-kilter way, tall and gaunt, with copper-brown skin and deep-set eyes. He wasn’t goth anymore. He wore a crew cut, jeans, a parka coat and, obviously, a yellow vest. She saw, glancing into his agape mouth, that even his tongue piercing was gone.

Once the shock of seeing him faded, rage boiled up inside her. What did he think he was doing? Was this why he broke his promise to her, to devote his life to this nonsense?

“Manuela, why are you in Paris? Did you feel the call too, watching it on TV?” he asked.

“The call? The goddamn call? Are you loco? You’re not French. What do you care about French people? You’re a lunatic, that’s what you are! Do you want to get your head bashed in by the police?” She trembled with anger, and a whole range of emotions, and also because she was cold. Remaining impassive, he took off his coat. He placed it on her shoulders, the yellow vest still over it.

“There’s too much imbalance in the world. Twenty-five thousand people starve to death every day, and others have more than they can spend in ten lifetimes. I won’t just sit back and tweet about it,” he affirmed. She wanted to scream at him. She wanted to shake him. She realized the futility of it. He had been spouting the same rhetoric since they were in The Fundamentals of Socioeconomics together. 

*

She enrolled in the course for her second semester at the urging of her college mentor, Professor Colvin. Having perused her file, Professor Colvin recommended a career in social work. Apparently, he deemed art too risky. He remarked on her sensitive nature and added that her fluency in Spanish would be a major asset.

The moment she spotted Javier, she was tempted to drop the class. Every time she glimpsed his face, she relived the humiliation of their cafeteria encounter.

Javier was Professor Robbins’ most outspoken student. Though Warren University was famously liberal, Javier insisted that none of Professor Robbins’ proposed social remedies went far enough.

“What good is affirmative action? Even a Harvard degree is worthless without connections.”

“You know what food stamps buy? My family’s on them, so I’ll tell you. Cheap crap that makes you fat and kills you.”

“Does a POC ever teach this class, instead of some dude driven by condescending, white, liberal guilt?”

On one occasion when Javier left Professor Robbins dumbfounded, Professor Robbins called on Manuela, though she hadn’t raised her hand. She had written an “A” paper on the subject.

“You, can you elaborate on why welfare payments are not insulting bribes devised to keep the oppressed mollified?”

“It’s…I mean, um. Yes, I, just, it’s not…” Every point outlined in her paper suddenly evaporated from her mind. Spittle flew from her lips. Her face burned red. She glanced around the circular lecture hall. She could tell everyone was wondering what was wrong with her. Was she having some kind of fit? Why didn’t she talk? Why did she dress like that? Her eyes landed on Javier’s. She gazed at him imploringly. Somehow, she must have known he could help.

“I didn’t say that. I said ‘compliant.’ ‘Mollified’ suggests the poor possess an ounce of power,” Javier clarified.

“Oh, come on. Public assistance redistributes power,” Professor Robbins groaned. He reiterated his argument, forgetting Manuela. Javier didn’t forget her, however. When Professor Robbins dismissed the class at noon, he headed towards her. She scurried out before he could reach her.

At the start of the next class, Javier was waiting outside the room. He held the door open for her. Looking like he did, like Marilyn Manson’s Hispanic lovechild, his exaggerated smile struck her as maniacal.

“Hello, my name’s Javier.” He extended his hand. She gaped at it, flustered. He waited.

“Excuse me,” a student said behind her. She and Javier were blocking the way. Ignoring Javier, she darted inside.

“And you are?” he asked. When she glanced behind her, he shook hands with the air. He followed her in, sitting a few seats away. She glowered at him, but he didn’t seem to mind. He watched her calmly. She avoided looking in his direction for the rest of class.

The next class, he was standing in the hall, holding the door open again. Keeping her eyes down, she sped past him, as if he were a panhandler outside the grocery. He followed her in. He sat in the seat behind her.

“How do you like Professor Robbins?” he asked. She ignored him.

“He’s a pompous twit, wouldn’t you say?” he continued. She glanced back at him, horrified. The whole class, Professor Robbins included, could hear him. Javier smirked. Feeling a smirk appear on her own lips, she turned around.

“You don’t have to say it,” he said. She didn’t know if he meant he knew she agreed, or that he would keep talking to her, even if she didn’t acknowledge him. Fortunately, for the remainder of class, he focused on antagonizing Professor Robbins.

“Bye, Manuela,” he said at noon, though she had never given him her name.

“Bye, Javier,” he said as she silently stormed out.

For months, this continued. Javier would greet her at the door, sit near her, try to get her to talk, fail and try the next class. She was good at feigning obliviousness, not that she entirely blocked him out. She couldn’t resist stealing occasional glances at him. He was handsome, despite his goth getups. She found herself wishing he was the boy she first thought he was, the kindred spirit with whom she could hide from the world.

As the semester wound down, he grew more aggressive. Once, he blocked the door so she couldn’t enter. She merely waited until someone else asked him to move. Another day, she heard him plea behind her, “Say one word to me.” When she didn’t respond, a paper airplane landed on her desk. Though she left it unopened, from the tops of the letters, she saw he wrote, “C’mon.”

He still didn’t sit next to her. He must have realized how threatened she would feel. On the last day of class, he broke their unspoken rule. The moment he sat, she jolted back in her seat. Hearing the skid of her chair, the class turned to her. She didn’t change seats. It would only draw more attention to herself.

She couldn’t ignore him. He was constantly in her periphery. She saw whenever he turned to look at her. She heard his breathing, smelled his scent. Conflicting impulses swirled inside her. He was cruel. He harassed her. He mocked her. At the same time, she yearned for him. She had assumed she would go the rest of her life without physical affection. How could any man get close to her, unless he forced himself on her?

Like all men, he wanted to use her. Her ugly clothes and nonexistent social skills wouldn’t matter when she was naked and still. If he forgot how pitiful she was, she might too. She remembered a time, long ago, when she liked to be touched. Embraces had filled her with warmth. She had felt loved by her mother, her grandparents. She didn’t fear the real Manuela would disgust them. She wanted to feel loved again, even if it was a lie. She would give him what he desired. She didn’t have to speak to tell him. She lowered her hand beneath the desk, reached towards him and placed her hand on his thigh.

She felt him grab her hand. She turned to him. His eyes widened in shock. His mouth twisted in revulsion. He flung her hand away. She was stunned. Didn’t he understand? He could have her. He crossed his legs. He avoided her eyes. He stared straight ahead, his chin quivering.

He looked violated. It dawned on her how sick she was. All he wanted was to talk to her. She was so crazy. No one had any idea. Except, now someone did. She glanced at the clock. It was a quarter to noon. She couldn’t sit beside Javier a minute longer. She darted out, leaving her notebook on her desk. She wouldn’t need to study for the final. It was time to stop prolonging her misery.

*

“You’re throwing your life away,” she snapped.

“I’m devoting my life to justice,” he replied stoically. Obviously, he wouldn’t listen to reason. He had traveled five thousand miles to a foreign country, inspired by some TV news segments. “So, what? You’re here, like, on vacation?” he asked, scornfully.

“Yes, with my boyfriend.” She had nothing to be ashamed of. Hadn’t she known enough heartache in her life to deserve a little fun? She glanced back at the restaurant. Louis hadn’t followed her out, which surprised her. Perhaps he hadn’t seen her leave, figured she was in the restroom.

“Manuela Perez, bougie,” he muttered in disbelief.

“Maybe I am, well, you’re a dumb jerk, risking your neck for a place you don’t even know.” She stabbed her finger towards him. “Have you been to the Louvre? Notre-Dame? The Panthéon? Have you gone up the Eiffel Tower?”

“I walked past it.” He shrugged. She groaned exasperatedly. By now, the other “yellow vests” had marched out of sight. A chorus of honks was the only indication of their presence.

“Can you slip away for a while?” she asked. She had an idea.

“Sorry,” he said. He bit his lip, seeming torn. She saw it wouldn’t be hard to sway him.

“You can’t be a ‘yellow vest’ without your vest, can you?” she said. Clutching the fabric of the vest, she backed away. He crossed his arms, chagrinned.

“You devious, capitalist scum,” he laughed. He glanced back in the direction of the protesters worriedly.

“Tell them you were arrested. It’ll earn you cool points,” she offered.

“Fine, you’ve hijacked me temporarily. What do you want to show me, before I rejoin the struggle? The Mona Lisa?” he sneered. She glanced away thoughtfully. She tried to decide on the most beautiful place in Paris. She smiled. Yet, it wasn’t close, a forty-minute walk. Louis would fret. She couldn’t text him. Her phone was in her purse, hanging on her chair. Nonetheless, she owed Javier this. If Louis knew what Javier had done for her, he would understand.

*

She gazed out her dorm window, three flights up, wondering if a fall would kill her. If not, her injuries could make life even more hellish. She held the aspirin bottle in her hand. She ran her finger lightly across the blade of her pre-med roommates’ scalpel. Alas, she imagined her roommate’s reaction to finding her. She would think how crazy she was, must have always been. Everyone would think that. Even though it was true, that hurt her pride.

She probably wouldn’t kill herself. Still, she was pondering the tallest roof on campus when she heard a knock on the door. She didn’t ask who it was. At worst, it was a psychotic murderer who would do the job she couldn’t.

“Hi,” Javier said. He gazed down shyly. He clutched her notebook with both hands. “You left this,” he said, holding it out to her. She stood, nonplussed. Before class that morning, she would have slammed the door in his face. Now, she felt so ashamed that she would give him anything he wanted.

“Thank you,” she said, her first words to him ever. She took the notebook from him. “That was really nice,” she added. He wanted her to speak, she would talk up a storm. “I need that to study for the final.”

“I found your room online,” he explained.

“That was really nice,” she said. She cringed, realizing she was repeating herself. She went back to thinking she was better off saying as little as possible.

“Can I come in?” he asked. She nodded. She set the notebook down on her desk.

“Wow,” he said, stepping inside. His eyes were fixed on the wall above her bed, where she had scotch-taped a watercolor landscape and a handful of sketches. She closed the door. He was silent for a minute. Finally, he turned to her, his face red and contorted with anguish.

“I just want you to know that I’m really screwed up in my head,” he said in a cracked voice. She glanced back at the door, wondering if closing it was a mistake. Being murdered suddenly seemed less appealing. He paced back and forth, biting his nail, brooding over something.

“You’re not,” she said, thinking it was the right thing to say and also the least likely to aggravate him.

“I am, I really am,” he said, with an awkward laugh. “You should know that however crazy you are, it’s okay. Nothing would shock me. You’re not worse than I was. I don’t care what you’ve done, what anyone made you do. You still deserve to live, more than most of the morons out there,” he asserted. As she stared at him, he suddenly transformed into the boy pictured on Warren’s website, who never talked, whose life was a constant nightmare. He was him, but he was better, and still a mess. She felt an overwhelming desire to help him. Finally, she understood what he must have felt looking at her.

“I mean, look at your art.” He turned to gaze at her watercolor painting. Something in his serene expression made her want to peel the landscape from the wall and hand it to him. She didn’t. She was afraid it would be weird.

“How did you change?” she asked. He shrugged, as if the answer was a mystery to him too. She let out a hopeless whimper.

“You’re already changing, I can tell,” he grinned. She gave him a skeptical frown.

“I’ll prove it to you. We’ll meet in the hall after the final. We’ll talk about how good or horrible we did. You’ll think, ‘that was easier than I thought.’ Not the test, but talking. You’ll work at it like it’s a class, excel at it. You’ll buy new clothes, get a trendy hairstyle. You’ll be prettier than Penelope Cruz. With luck, you’ll avoid turning into a burro like me,” he proclaimed.

“You think so?” she said, hopefully. He seemed so certain.

“If you still want me, then, when you’re ready, I’ll be there,” he promised her. More than anything else, that convinced her he was telling the truth. He knew exactly how crazy she was, and still believed she was worthy of love.

“That’s very kind of you,” she said. He took a step closer. He stared into her eyes. She thought he would kiss her. It terrified her, because, though she wanted him to, she didn’t think she could keep from recoiling. Instead, he stepped around her and opened the door.

“See you around,” he smiled. She nodded and he left.

Their next encounter was more or less as he had predicted. He finished earlier than she did. He waited in the hall until she was done. They agreed the test was a breeze. Still, he thought he would fail the essay portion. Rather than list the pros and cons of public housing, he argued that all housing must be public. She asked about his summer plans. She wanted to impress him with her progress.

“Assorted acts of mischief and rebellion,” he replied. “Next year George W.’s up for reelection,” he added. He seemed to think that explained everything.

“Don’t get arrested.” Feeling bold, she ventured a joke.

“You can’t always help it,” he said, not laughing. “And you?” he asked.

“Just my art, probably,” she said. She felt drained. She wanted to get away. Conversation took so much effort. With an abrupt “goodbye,” she hurried off. At the end of the hall, she glanced back. He stared at her. She sensed his longing. She ached for him too. It was the moment she realized she loved him, had loved him all along. It was also the last time she saw him. He lied. When she was ready for him, he was nowhere to be found.

*

They sat on the steps of Sacré-Cœur Basilica gazing at the view from Montmartre. She knew Javier would like it. She remembered how in awe he had been of her watercolor landscape. He pointed at the Eiffel Tower.

“Maybe I should visit the top before I leave,” he said.

“When will that be?” she asked. He shrugged.

“And where? Wherever the wind takes you?” she huffed. He had always been a wandering soul. He was supposed to return to Warren. He had one more year to complete. For several years, she had no idea what happened to him.

One day, she discovered his blog online. He posted every few weeks. Whenever he mentioned his location, it seemed to be in a different city. Sometimes he was a bartender, sometimes a waiter, sometimes a stock boy. The only constant in his life was his activism. She surmised, more or less, why he dropped out of Warren. “How did those college loan officers get my address? I refuse to pay back one red cent, just like I refused to be anyone’s token, poor minority. Let a darky slip in for every three legacies, now you’re not racist and elitist: yeah right,” was what he had to say on the subject.

“You sound mad.” He turned to her, puzzled.

“You should know,” she grumbled.

“Know what?” he asked. Regretting her remark, she changed the subject. There was no reason to make this lovely moment unpleasant.

“You should know that what you did for me saved my life. Before you, I had no hope. I knew I could change, because you changed. You saw the most screwed up part of me. You still believed in me.” Her voice cracked with emotion.

“See, radicals are right sometimes,” he smirked.

“It’s true, no one normal would’ve done that, no one who cared about convention,” she said thoughtfully. She decided she couldn’t rue his extremism.

“I didn’t know how much I meant to you. I would have contacted you if I did,” he said.

“I know,” she said. He smiled, glad to be forgiven. He reached for her hand. She took his hand and squeezed it. Her mind flashed back to when he shoved her hand away in Professor Robbins’ class, the only other time he touched her. It was such a violent gesture then, such a tender one now.

“I’m sorry that I couldn’t save you,” she said. He frowned. He gazed off into the distance. He withdrew his hand from hers.

His blogs were always virulent. At first, his favorite target was the Bush administration, with posts like, “Version 2.0: Dumbed Down, but Still a Warmonger.” When the democrats took power, he berated them too, “Barry can charm the knickers off a nun, but there’s been less ‘change’ than a beggar gets on Capitol Hill.” After a while, his pieces turned troubling: “The Ebola Virus: A Capitalist-Engineered Genocide,” “Proof San Bernardino Was a Gov’t Backed Hit Job.”

She searched for any indication that he was being ironic. Even mention of a girlfriend, or a friend, or a dog, would have heartened her. She only found theories and diatribes, each more paranoid than the next. Finally, she stopped reading; it was too heartbreaking. If she were more like him, she would have gone to him, tried to save him. Instead, she saved herself. She met Louis, accepted his invitation for coffee. Each time she felt herself push Louis away, she remembered how Javier isolated himself, the toll it took on his sanity. She couldn’t let that happen to her.

Eventually, she did bring up his blog again. At last secure in her relationship, she felt hopeful that Javier could find happiness too. He hadn’t posted in months. After searching for him on Google, she discovered his photo alongside a news item in the Seattle Star: “Local Bartender Gone Missing.”

“Javier Guzman, a bartender at Grunge in Downtown, hasn’t been seen for two weeks. A missing persons report was filed by his mother when she was unable to reach him by phone. His cell phone, wallet and keys were found in his apartment. An eyewitness spotted a man matching Mr. Guzman’s description crossing Fremont Bridge, behaving in an erratic manner. If you have information regarding Mr. Guzman’s whereabouts, please contact…Read More.”

That was a year and a half ago. Since then, Google had revealed nothing about him. For a year and a half, she had been imagining what she would say to him if she ever got the chance.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” she said.

“Yup, you don’t have to spend a dime to enjoy an amazing view. Not even a rich man can own the sky,” he chuckled. He leaned back on his elbows, taking in the landscape.

“There’s so much suffering out there. It’s easy to let it overwhelm us. We mustn’t, though. It’s not wrong to be happy,” she said. He turned to her. He smiled, but she wasn’t sure he was really listening.

“It’s nice up here, but I have to get back. We had a deal. Don’t make me spend my last five bucks on a new vest. I’m dying to try one of those Nutella crepes.” With a wistful sigh, he rose to his feet.

“Fine,” she said. She stood. She took off his coat with the vest over it. She handed it to him. As he put it on, her face crumpled with sorrow. He would disappear again. She wouldn’t know, once again, where he was, if he was alive or dead.

“Oh, Manuela, I’ll be okay. I’m a survivor, like you. You haven’t realized that by now?” He put his arms around her. She fell against him. She squeezed him tightly. She was so grateful to feel his flesh. For fifteen years, he had been a ghost to her. All she’d had of him was his blog, then nothing. “Don’t suffocate me. I want to keep surviving,” he wheezed. She pulled away, laughing and crying.

“So, what’s next for you? I mean after your vacation. You marrying that boyfriend of yours?” he asked. He kept his face blank, no doubt trying not to look jealous.

“I think so,” she said. She decided, she was better off with Louis in the end. A revolutionary’s life wasn’t for her. She had known enough struggle as a child. She would rather do what made her happy. “And I’ve got my artwork,” she said.

“Your art!” he exclaimed. He cringed, ashamed for having forgotten. She did feel slightly miffed. Perhaps she had always been more of a cause to him than a person. “What’s your art like these days?” he asked. She blushed, flattered by his interest in her life, even if it had taken some prompting.

“I’ve been dabbling in surrealism,” she said.

“Like Dali?” he asked. “An anarchist,” he added, with a nod of approval.

“Kind of, but not grotesque. I use fantastical elements to depict something genuine. Even if its surreal, it’s real.” She gazed off into the sky, trying to think of the right words to describe it.

“Like a fairytale,” he said. She screwed her mouth to the side. That wasn’t quite right. A fairytale suggested something frivolous.

“No,” she declared. The only way she knew how to explain it was visually. “Like this: a woman flies over an otherwise naturalistic scene. She’s taken a brief detour from her life. Now she must return.”

Slowly, she floated upward. She gazed down at Javier. Smiling, he waved at her. He seemed happy knowing she was happy. She had a good life. He had no reason to feel guilty. Of course, there was still longing in his eyes. His smile gradually faded, conveying a hint of regret. Soon, she couldn’t make out his features. He was a dot among dots, atop a dash of bright yellow. She rose above Sacré-Cœur’s elegant dome. Raising her arms to catch the wind, she glided over Paris. She looked to the Eiffel Tower to orient herself. The restaurant was halfway there.

She hadn’t thought of how to explain her absence to Louis. She suddenly realized that she wouldn’t have to. She was there, at the table, across from him, waiting to order. She heard the chanting outside, but it was dying down: “Le temps nous appartient!” The time was theirs no longer.

“It’s supposed to be only Saturdays: radicals among radicals,” Louis sneered. “Are you okay?” he asked. She must have looked unsettled.

“I’m fine. Sorry, my mind drifted away for a moment.” She smiled to allay his concern. He put his hand atop hers. His touch helped bring her back to the present, to her life, which was comfortable, secure and fulfilling.

“Don’t let those yellow idiots upset you. We’re here to enjoy ourselves,” he said.

“It’s just, the protesters reminded me of someone,” she said. She paused. Momentarily, she considered telling him the story of Javier. She decided not to. Parts would disturb him. Parts would make him jealous. It was enough that Javier knew how he had saved her. She felt certain that he did, that it was a source of pride for him, wherever he was.

Scott Bassis has had short stories published in Poydras Review, The Furious Gazelle, The Writing Disorder, JAB, Sweet Tree Review, The Acentos Review, Open: Journal of Arts & Letters, Me First Magazine, Image Outwrite, Quail Bell Magazine, The Missing Slate, Jumbelbook, Furtive Dalliance and Fiction on the Web.