Pierre

“Shall we?” Pierre gestured towards the entrance of Saint-Sulpice. Inside, he pointed to the first side-chapel on the right, and we sat before the mural of Jacob Wrestling with the Angel.
“What do you think?” I asked.
“Jacob will lose,” he replied. Then, after a pause, “Are you hungry?”
“No, I’m fine, but I’ll follow you.”
We found a table at Café de la Mairie. “Un quart de vin rouge,” he said to the waitress. He swirled the glass thoughtfully. “I haven’t been out in ages, but I think it’s not good for me. My brain needs air; otherwise, it spoils.” He spoke so softly I had to lean in to catch his words.
“Are you still hopeless about having children?” I asked.
He pouted slightly before answering. “The last woman I slept with didn’t warm me. She talked too much, nonstop, and at some point, she called me a silent man. I wouldn’t be silent if she ever listened to me. What about your cooking lady?”
“She wanted to own my heart, but you know, it was already broken. What was left, I gave to M. I told her I have nothing left but love for everyone, but she wanted more. So, she left me.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, glancing at his empty glass. “There’s no good food here, and I’m starving. Thai or Korean?”
“Korean. And let me pay for the wine this time.”
“Alright, but I’ll cover the Korean, and you can tattoo me a line tomorrow. Deal?”
“Deal.”

The next day, Pierre called. “I’m on the terrace of the brasserie called Ernest.”
“I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
He was seated in the sun, smoking a cigarette.
“It’s very bourgeois of you to drink wine at noon,” I teased.
“Why not? Care to join me?”
“No, thank you.”
The waitress brought him a small plate of couscous with falafel and diced tomatoes.
“Vous avez choisi?” she asked me.
“Rien pour moi, merci.”
Pierre winced after a bite. “It costs 14 euros and tastes like nothing.”
“Better tasteless than unpalatable,” I said, closing my eyes briefly.
“Let’s go,” he said, snapping me back.
We crossed the street towards La Place de Catalogne.
“I don’t like this Italian fascist architecture,” he said. “It all feels fake.”
“The architect is Riccardo Bofill. He was Spanish, and his work is considered some of the most impressive of the 20th century.”
“Logical, then. Catalonia is in Spain.”

At my place, Pierre stepped onto the balcony for another cigarette.
“Did you sleep well last night?” I asked.
“I woke up at three. Thought I had plenty of time before the day began, so I let myself be lazy and watched WWII videos. Here’s the line I want.”
He showed me a picture of his back with a new line sketched using an app.
“I’m not sure what to do with this triangle,” he admitted.
“We could fill it in with black,” I suggested.
“Next time.”
“Alright, lie down on the couch,” I said, preparing my tools.
“Ouch!” he exclaimed as I began. “I don’t remember it hurting this much during my first tattoo.”
“It did. As usual.”
“And it still does. Do people often ask for breaks?”
“Apart from you? Never.”
“Ouch!”
“It’s done. Stand by the wall so I can take a picture.”
“Not this time. I don’t like my back.”
“Come on, we always take great pictures.”
“Please, respect my wish.”
“Of course. I’m sorry.”
“I still have some time before my doctor’s appointment. How about a coffee?”
“With pleasure. But let’s go to a restaurant—I’m hungry.”

At Pois Chic, I couldn’t contain my excitement. “Oh my god, you have to try this couscous with ratatouille!” The dish, served in a clay pot, was perfection. “I’m so sorry you had tasteless couscous while I’m having the best couscous ever.”
Pierre grabbed a spoon and sampled it. “It’s properly cooked, indeed.”
“What’s your doctor’s visit about?”
“I need new antidepressants. The last ones left me completely numb. By the way, I should leave soon to avoid being late. I’ll pay for your lunch.”
“Please don’t.”
“I insist.”
As he stood to go, I asked, “Every time we meet for a tattoo, I ask you the same question: What makes you happy? And you always give a different answer. What is it now?”
He stared at the table for a moment before replying. “Happiness starts with wanting to do something. Being happy is the opposite of being depressed.”
“Pierre,” I said, “with all my heart, I wish you to want things again and to overcome this depression as soon as possible.”
His eyes glistened with tears as he stood, pulling me into a tight embrace. His right hand gripped my left shoulder as though anchoring himself. Then he walked away. I remained seated for twenty minutes, motionless.