Page 43, “The Persuasion”
Tonin put his arm around my waist and led me out. We walked along the river until we reached Le Jardin des Tuileries, its paths edged with heliotrope. He picked a stem of dark-cherry and stuck it behind my ear.
That night we went to what would become our favorite dining spot, a place called, strangely enough, “Restaurant,” just behind Pont Neuf, and shared what would become our signature meal, fondue bourguignon. When a violinist came by our table, Tonin reached for my hand, stood, and pulled me into the narrow aisle between the tables where we danced to “When I’m 64.” He nuzzled his face into mine, tightened his arm around my waist, and drew me into his chest. “I can’t wait until we’re 64.”
In mid-September, I flew back to New York for my senior year of college; a telegram from Tonin was waiting. In mid-October, he showed up at my dorm unannounced. We spent the next weekend in a creaky brass bed in the master cabin of his grandparents’ compound in the Adirondacks. By Sunday night, he was running the numbers for 2011, when we would be 64. “We will have made love, how many times, let’s see, I get 14213,” he said, “if we average once a day.”
“15695,” I said as I ran the numbers faster and more accurately.
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