Garden Of Love

• Anthea Tsaousis, Grade 9
• Short Story
• 2010

December 15th 1996,
Paris
There is just something magical about winter in Paris. Maybe it’s the vehement soul of Christmas or the blanket of snow that envelopes you in a gulp , or the romantic essence about the way the historic city’s buildings look, caste in the shadows of a winter afternoon’s pale brightness and the cosiness and festiveness in relishing “vin chaud” to keep warm at the Christmas markets. But what awe-inspires me is the sight of couples embraced in the warmth of each other at day-break, seated along the “River Seine” indulging in “Cabernet Sauvignon”, whispering into one another’s ears, warming their lover’s hearts. I yearn to stop and stare but always constrain myself in time not to make a fool of myself. I am frightened of the onetime prospect where I won't move, because my eyes will be embraced in a world too perfect to stray from. The world of love.

I feel that the true beauty of Paris and its residents exudes in the winter. The winter is when the city is at ease, without the crush of tourism that plagues it during the rest of the year. During the winter you view Paris as the Parisians do; wide, empty boulevards, silent parks, quiet museums and the Eiffel Tower liberated.
As I sit at a fountain in the Jardin des Tuilleries and absorb the winter sun, alongside dozens of locals, the huskiness of a stranger’s voice and the eloquence of his French accent entices me and magnetizes me to his conversation. His conversation concerning the intricacy involved in selecting a gift for his mother and sister, because they’re just so “pedantic”. If only the men in Australia considered buying their family members a present, I wouldn't have to travel to Paris in a quest for love. My mouth releases a tide of giggles and my coquettish laugh turns his head. I now contemplate my efforts in becoming fluent in French. Why was I so fussed again?

As my head spins to meet his eyes I am engrossed by his delicate facial features; his sugar coated, plump ruby lips, rose- petal cheeks, and his judicious almond eyes. The air in my body comes to a halt and stops circulating, I sense my mouth becoming dry, my lungs purposeless and even worse my voice inaudible. I urge God to release this hold over me and allow me to return to my existing presence. As I attempt to inhale some air, he introduces himself and remarks that he couldn’t restrict himself from turning his head because my laugh was just so vibrant. I somehow manage to calm down in those few seconds and introduce myself, excusing myself for laughing, and telling him of how intrigued I was in his conversation. When he heard my reply he asked me if I wouldn't mind aiding him with this penetrating ordeal. I was stunned. Of course my reply was an explicit “oui”. The humility Jean Philippe attains I have never seen in a man before. It is “vrai” (true), French men do obtain oozing sexuality and the propensity of leaving you in astonishment.

1 year and 10 Days Later 25th of December
The concept of love at first sight I never thought to be possible. But for some people, that’s exactly how it is. When I first saw Jean Philippe, his exuding sexuality burnt right to my core, and the chemistry penetrating between us made me incapable of speaking. Now a year later, I’m still in Paris, celebrating Christmas for the second time with his wondrous, tender family. I can’t say the year has been all smiles and the road as smooth as a pebble, but it has been a year full of love.

Whilst I’m strolling towards the Eiffel Tower, the place Jean wanted to meet me, I can’t help but glance once again at the children running around the park, whilst beads of snow land on their small figures, the trees in the milieu frosty and silver with snow. They wear berets and fluffy woollen coats. Their noses are chilled and rosy. Their cheeks flushed. Their hearts naive and youthful. The pressures of the world far beyond their imaginations and their ability to comprehend. Their love innocent. But no love is painless and true love is penetrating, deep and passionate.
I approach the Eiffel Tower and see Jean, his face plastered with his unique smirk that makes my body tingle. The smell of his idiosyncratic cologne wafting towards me. As our lips reunite, I feel myself collapse under the power he has over me. His potency urges me to be near him. When our lips part, he reaches into his pocket and withdraws a petite box, kneels on the snow with the essence of the Eiffel Tower behind us and asks “Will you marry me”? I liberate my flow of tears as they’re uncontrollable. I squeal a vibrant “Oui” and provide him with my hand. He delicately positions the alluring ring on my finger. I am speechless reminiscing the day we met. I embrace his stature and immerse my lips with his. There are no words that express and justify my emotions. This is utter happiness, pure bliss. All I can say to Jean is “Mais ce qui fait mon bonheur, c’est d’être dans ton coeur”, ‘but what makes my happiness, it is to be in your heart”.
By Anthea Tsaousis