Marrying Paris

Flash Fiction Based on a True Story

Image credit: Jace & Afsoon via Unsplash

I pressed my cheek against Igor’s as his finger clicked the button on our old point-and-shoot camera.

Nearly two decades ago now.

It was one of our first selfies, capturing a moment in Paris. Our newly minted marriage seemed at home here in this enchanted Belle Epoque metropolis. A million loves had blossomed here before us, a million more still to come.

It was just the two of us in that photo on the long green of the Champ de Mars, but there were three spirits filling the lens: a young couple, faces shining with hope and expectations, and the City of Light herself, represented by that spectacular tower that Eiffel built.

As I study the photo now, I can’t help but smile. I remember the warm light of the early autumn sun, the crisp brightness of the air. The atmosphere of that Paris snapshot is the same one that permeates our wedding album. Yellow leaves twisting in the breeze, golden light on white silk. It was that secret fall magic that I wanted for our wedding day: a special time to speak hallowed words, clasp hands, exchange rings.

I knew the harvest season was the right time for us to come to that romantic city on the Seine, too. Everyone clamors about Paris in the springtime, but Paris in the fall is when the bewitching truly happens.

The city beckons any time of the year, enticing you with promises and mysteries, but that vitality matures as the sensual languor of summer recedes and wise autumn arrives to the wide boulevards. October in Paris is careworn and creased perhaps, but also lively, sly, and just a little dangerous.

This was the rarefied atmosphere that surrounded us on our way to the Tower. With our bellies full of fresh croissants and rich café au lait from a spot on the Rue Cler, we meandered our way arm-in-arm along the cobblestone streets. Our destination was the Eiffel Tower, but we were in no hurry as we dodged elegant matrons and beautiful ingénues, prissy poodles, and their stately owners. It was a scene straight out of A Moveable Feast and my eyes and heart drank it in.

Igor held me in a little tighter when the Tower came into view. The iron latticework and soaring height made the spire appear to defy the enormous weight of its materials. It shot upward from its terrestrial foundation, straining toward the heavens. I looked forward to our ascent up its curving lines to stand giddy at the top, the climax of Paris.

We quickened our pace along the straight gravel path of the Champ toward the tower, laughing and sighing at our great luck to be here together at the most perfect time of year in the most perfect place for young love.

Lost in this revelry, neither one of us noticed the small, dark woman who approached from our right. Dressed in full skirts of burgundy and ochre, she could easily have been a spirit of autumn. The brilliant red scarf she wore artfully over her black and silver hair enhanced this fleeting fancy.

It wasn’t until you stopped to look at her that she became fully part of reality. A ring of mud caked the hem of her multicolored petticoats and years of exposure to the elements had written deep lines across the apples of her cheeks.

She locked eyes with me, and I could see there that spark, the gleam of autumn in Paris, fascinating and mercurial.

“You dropped this,” she said in heavily accented English. In her hand was a small, golden ring. I stared at it mesmerized until Igor reached out and grabbed it, slipping it on his pinky.

“Is it yours?” he asked.

The little gilt circle tinkled musically against the wide band of his wedding ring. Seeing it there was startling. I whisked it quickly from his finger and back into the coarse hands of the woman.

“Never seen it before,” I said.

The woman stood there for a moment, appraisingly. Her dark eyes flashed, with amusement or warning; it was hard to tell. A brisk wind blew through the disappearing leaves on the trees.

Igor grabbed my hand, and we continued along the path, both feeling a slight unease. When I glanced back, the woman was gone.

Hours later, lounging in a picturesque café at the bottom of Montmartre, we wondered about it. It was an odd encounter—a chance meeting or a ruse, we supposed.

Nothing more.

Shrugs were exchanged, and the conversation turned back to our plans for the rest of the trip.

But I couldn’t stop thinking about it. The occasion felt significant somehow.

That night, lost in the haze of oncoming sleep, my mind wove stories of a spontaneous ceremony. A rite presided over by quicksilver Autumn. The union of a vernal couple and a venerable monument.

At home, I tucked the photo Igor had taken of us into the back of our wedding album. It felt like the appropriate place for that particular picture. And I return to it every once in a while, drawn to it as if by some kind of charm. A memento of romance, magic, and the City of Light.

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This is a story inspired by a real encounter my husband and I had many years ago in Paris. It’s not a work of fiction so much as a memory, but time has made it feel like a fairy tale.

For more horror and dark fantasy-inspired love stories that are firmly in the fiction category, check out A Heart Full of Teeth, Render Us Rotten, and Ghost, Writing.

Or if you’re in the mood for something a little longer, my serialized novel Dark as Dawn, Bright as Night is perfect for adult readers of upmarket horror, urban and new adult fantasy, as well as lovers of ghost stories and folk tales.

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