Parisian Promises by Cecilia Velástegui

Monica answered, “Absolutely.”
    She didn’t want to upset Jean-Michel ever again, and she didn’t think he would hold her in high regard if she admitted to having few friends. The women she was rooming with here in Paris had become her only close human friends. Even zany Madame Caron de Pichet, who late at night offered unusual and bawdy advice about dealing with men, had become a sort of friend. Yet Monica knew she wouldn’t go out of her way to help any of them. Not because they’d been lacking as friends: Monica simply would not let anything get in the way of accomplishing her dream of living in Paris or, more precisely, falling madly in love in Paris. All through her life, she’d always thought of Rocky as her best friend, in a way, and had taken comfort in grooming, training, and riding him. He understood her every gesture and mood, and––unlike her feuding parents––Rocky and his calm nature warmed her heart. His devoted animal love satisfied her more than any friendship could.
    What Monica needed now was the intensity of a torrid love affair with this particular man of her dreams, the man who now rubbed her and ignited the fire inside her. She was in Paris, even if the last few days weren’t quite the Paris of her dreams; she was lying next to a sensuous and intriguing man, and she knew she had to turn whatever was evolving between them into the love of her life––both of their lives. She would settle for no less, and she silently promised herself to give her all to this goal.
    She stroked his hair and kissed his forehead. “When you stayed away, it worried me so much. But I knew you’d come back to my arms.”
    â€œThat’s all I thought about,” he lied.
    Monica wanted to direct him back to their lovemaking of three days ago, but she played her cards cautiously. “You know, I’ve been waiting to hear the rest of your most romantic love story about Isabel and the Amazon.” She massaged his back, and he moaned in fake pain as if he had run all the way back from the Loire. “If you’re not too fatigued from your long drive, I’d love to hear it.”
    Jean-Michel approved of this new, even more submissive Monica. The tactics he’d learned about forcing a female target into an environment of isolation and mind-clouding techniques appeared to have paid off. His persistent knocks on the door and enigmatic whistles had accomplished their objective: to confuse and undermine Monica’s logical train of thought the last two nights. It was his own version of a Pavlovian experiment: knock softly, yet persistently, to get her attention, and whistle the mystical three notes to confuse her. This one-two punch had forced Monica to get up throughout the night, make her way to the door, and turn the locked door handle––over and over and over again.
    From the peepholes Jean-Michel had installed on the common walls of the empty apartment next door, he had observed her gradual decline––hour by hour––and he’d cherished it. He’d sat in the neighboring apartment and sketched Monica’s eventual decline until she looked like a naked ghost floating from the bat-filled bedroom to the sterile library, trying to turn lights on and attempting to cover herself in anything to combat the cold. He’d seen her sobbing quietly, staying away from the windows because she clearly didn’t want to let anyone on the outside know how much she was suffering inside the apartment. This particular reaction indicated to him that Monica must feel guilty and somehow responsible for her miserable situation––and this was precisely the outcome Jean-Michel wanted.
    He had deprived her of sleep, food, clean water, light, clothing, and warmth––and not once did he have to get his hands dirty like the other fool squads. He’d sat next door in the empty apartment that belonged to his