It happens next in Paris
The following is the beginning of a supernatural/thriller I’m writing. This is a second draft, but I’m trying to get better at showing my work, and I think you might enjoy it. Have fun!
It happens next in Paris. As I drag my suitcase over red carpet, as I slowly tighten the straps on my backpack. As my head begins to fill with old words in a new tongue.
I pull my jacket sleeve down.
I make sure no one is looking at me.
I make sure to breathe.
A woman speaks overhead–something about Charles de Gaulle. She continues in French that would be easier, now, if I could see it.
People run to their gates. People look at their phones. Today, people do not see me.
I try to keep my pace as I look for luggage claim icons. My brain runs with what I see on the signs, and now I’m not looking for icons, but I’m reading words.
Bathrooms. Currency exchange. Bagels and coffee and bathrooms.
I stop walking. Get my phone out of my pocket, get to the map. Zoom in, try to find what I need.
My arm aches.
It happened last week in Croatia.
I could ask someone at the currency exchange desk. They’d know where I can find the car I need to steal. Or I could ask a security official. There are several.
The map’s not working. I keep walking. Red carpet turns into tile. Tile turns into concrete. I keep my eyes on the signs–they flicker and change.
Luggage claim. An arrow points to my right.
I go right.
I did my research on the plane. PR and PX are long-term car parks. It’s a hundred-and-ninety euro for thirty days. Forty euro each week past that.
Someone should’ve left what I need.
I go down an escalator. People stand, on their phones, waiting for a train. I stand near a woman wearing a giant brown coat, whispering into her phone, ignoring her bags. I pretend to be deaf.
I was there, in Sesvete. They knew I was there–Andrain, the men and women hidden behind blinking lights. Andrain made sure it never made it past their camera lenses or their mouths–money does that. But now it’s made its way into Andrain’s brain.
“Train arrivant dans une minute,” a new overhead voice says. “Veuillez vous tenir of the doors.”
I grip my suitcase handle with my free hand. Stand in front of the doors like everyone else. Get onto the train when I can like everyone else. Standy, weighty, on my feet, like everyone else does when it moves.
The train takes us toward the main terminal. Stops twice. Says the same thing every time–“Train arriving in one minute. Please stand clear of the doors.” Now I hear it perfectly.
The train stops a third time, and I get off. Check my pocket to be sure my phone’s still there, my wallet. Pull my suitcase past a ticketing section. Go through a door. Into cold French air. Under a covered walkway. Under cold French sky.
I follow the signs to Car Park PX.
I get my phone out again. Find the app I need.
Wind bites my eyes. I walk between cars–black, gray. Water-covered. Covered with fingerprints.
The app does its thing. It takes me to the edge of the lot–to a black Tesla with icicles on its trunk.
I stop walking. Let go of the suitcase. Use the app to pop the trunk. Push down the handle of the suitcase, get it into the Tesla. Shut the trunk.
My phone vibrates.
I open the driver’s door.
Three vibrations. Four.
I loosen the strap on my backpack. Turn, scan the car park.
No one’s here.
I let my backpack fall to my left elbow. Get my phone out of my pocket. See her text without opening my phone.
Are you breaking up with me?
I sigh through teeth. Look around the lot again.
What would I type? Li won’t understand.
It happens again as I slide into the front seat of the Tesla, as I drop my backpack into the seat beside me. I rub my arm until my left hand hurts. Shut my eyes–don’t need to add to it.
Why are you here, Sevan?
It stops.
I shake my head hard. Turn the car on.
I can’t spend my mental energy writing texts to Li. That’s an excuse I could give if I were willing to respond. If she were willing to believe me.
The Tesla blows freezing air at my face. I figure out how to turn it off. Turn the heat on instead. Adjust the seats, too.
I’ve wanted this car for six years. Shame, maybe the first time I drive one, it doesn’t belong to me.
I shift into Drive and head toward the other end of the lot. The windshield wipers turn on to get rid of ice. Orange barricades lead me to a small booth. A woman sits inside, blowing on her hands.
Now to get out.
The woman looks down at me as I unroll the window.
“Do you have a paper?” she asks.
I pretend she’s hard to understand. Lean forward to check the dash.
“How long?” she asks again in French.
“Pardon?” I say, as non-French as possible.
“How long did you stay?” she asks in English. “I can check my system with your name.”
No. “Oh, sorry. I wasn’t thinking. Let me find it.”
I pop open the glove box. Not there. Check the back seat. No, there. In the cupholder. I grab it, turn it. The number hurts my head.
I turn, give it to her. “Ninety-seven days.”
She types something into her system. “Where’d you fly?”
My phone vibrates again.
She clicks a few times. Says, “I hope you’re not this distracted on the road.” Gives me a quick glance.
“Sorry. I went to Africa.”
“Heat sounds nice.”
“There was a lot of it.” I rub my thumb against my fingers. “Do you take Apple Card?”
She looks down at me again. Looks worse with her puffy eyes. “No.” Back at her screen.
I reach into my backpack, find my wallet in the front. “Cash?”
“We only do card here.” She taps the windowsill. “It’s five-fifty euro. Heat’s not so nice when it’s that expensive.”
I shrug, try to show it doesn’t matter. It does.
I hand her my only card. She swipes it.
I tap the steering wheel.
She taps her keyboard.
I pretend to be busy staring at nothing.
She hands me back my card. I slide it back into my wallet. I need to get rid of that.
“Just need you to sign,” she says. Gives me a clipboard with a receipt. Taps the glass now. Fingers are next to a white sign with black print.
You’re on camera.
The words flicker.
I sign without really looking, hand over the clipboard.
“Merci,” she says.
The gate lifts. I drive the stolen Tesla through the opening.
The end (for now). I’ll be back soon with more. If you enjoyed this, hit reply and let me know–I’d love to hear from you.