It seemed like an average day as I got off work around 5:00 pm up around Lamarck. I had quick walk home, grabbing dinner along the way and the necessary baguette, got a quick beer at Le Cave, a bar near my home. I left and made the last part of my walk home. As I walked up my stairs and into my house, a man approaches me. I am not startled. I am used to it since every other day he greets me before walking through my door. I don’t know much about him, and I don’t know if he lives in my neighborhood or if he is homeless, but regardless, he is not bothersome in any way, and is quite nice. He asks “How you doing?” in his thick british accent. I tell him what I always do “Im good, have a good night.” and walk into my house. This time was different though, expecting the typical “Hey!” from my wife and broken french from my 5 year old twins, I got nothing when I shouted into the house “Sarah? Hello? Anyone home?” The house was dark, unusually dead. I quickly looked around the house, and found that no one was home, not even the dog, Cliff. I was confused, so I decided I would call Sarah, but pour myself a drink first. I went into the basement, took the tarp off some storage boxes. I found the box titled “Records” and took out one of the bottles of Monkey Shoulder. As I closed it up I found a letter with my name on it “Michael” taped obviously to the top of the box, somehow not having appeared to me as I opened up the box. I quickly opened up the letter and read it. I took a seat on the cold concrete floor. I couldn't digest it. Sarah had written it. She said that she couldn't take it anymore, and that she knew about what I had been hiding, all the bottles in the boxes. She said that she was going to take a break and bring the kids with her. She wrote that she expected me to see this pretty quickly. I tossed the letter into a corner of the room. As I sat on this cold ground I began to breakdown, and an hour later most of the bottle was finished. I got up, picked two more bottles out of the box and walked up stairs. I looked out the front door and saw the man, the british man who always greets me home. I grabbed a coat and walked out the door. I said “Hey” and got his attention. I asked him if he had seen my wife leave? He replied “Yea I did, she was crying, so I figured it out pretty quickly. Sorry sir.” I took a breath and looked into the moonlight. With the two bottles of whiskey in my hand and I asked the man “Whats your name?” he said it was Ronnie. I then asked him “You want to take a walk Ronnie?” He slowly said “Yea sure, do I get some of that though?” pointing to the two bottles. I told him “If you can hold one you can have one, so lets go.” as I handed him one of the bottles. I started to walk up the street and he followed.
We took a short walk to Sacre Cœr. We walked up many stairs and took many falls along the way. The short walk began to feel like a long walk. Walking up the hill towards the church, I slipped onto my face due to the rain that had fallen hours earlier. Luckily it didn't hurt too much because my whole body had felt numb at this point. Ron, who was a yard back ran up to me, helping me get back up on my feet and hoisting me up the rest of the way till w got to the steps. He put me down on the step carefully, very carefully. I looked up at him and thanked him. “Whats your story, who are you?” he told me that he was just a wanderer from the UK on his journey, a journey which’s current stop was in Paris. He then added “But it doesn't matter, don’t worry about it.” That may be to some a scary and creepy reply but I wasn't made uncomfortable maybe it, I didn't think he meant it that way, but in a friendly, unselfish way. We sat drinking our bottles like teenagers drinking 40’s in a park after school, but got the beautiful view of the lit up holy looking church and Paris skyline. After a long talk, a talk that was emotionally amplified by the beautiful setting, Ron slapped my thigh and said lets go. After a foggy walk down stairs for a change we ended up at a burlesque club. I told Ron I didn't think this is what I needed right now in my life, but despite that, I ended up in the club legs crossed and uncomfortable like a nun shooting a porno. From there all i remember was walking out of the club and smashing my bottle of Monkey Shoulder on the sidewalk and looking around for Ron, but he wasn't there. I asked the person in the club where he was but they had no clue who I was talking about.
I wake up. Im in my bed. I run downstairs to see if anyones home. No one. I walk down to the basement and all the boxes are gone. I get a text from Sarah telling me she will come back, that she will give me a second chance, that she will help me get better because I do too. I look above her text and see that I had written a long apology note, laying the truth out, and making promises for the future. I find an email to her as well with the same. I wait all day watching TV, just waiting for Ron to show up in front of the house. He doesn’t. As life gets better and promises are fulfilled I never see Ron again. Was he real?
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