Jane lived on 6th Street, in a nicer, but bohemian part of town. Below her 19th century apartment was a cobblestone street, lined with boutiques, cafes, bars, and gaslights. I lived with Jane, at least some of the time. On any given night you could find me there, on 6th Street, hiding from the world in her apartment. We all hid from the world. 6th Street, along with Jane’s apartment, was the sort-of calm before the storm, at least at this point in time—before the apocalypse.
We were at the very beginnings of it—the apocalypse that is. The situation around the world was deteriorating quickly, so much so that the local news didn’t have time for local news—it only had time to talk about the state of the world we were so blissfully detached from. We were in our own little bubble. We were all very much aware that the world was ending; we had even discussed and debated it at great length, but we didn’t anymore. We couldn’t anymore, now that it was starting. There was nothing we could do about it, so why waste our last remaining days fretting over it? Either the rest of Paris felt similar, or they we naive and hopeful enough to assume it wouldn’t really happen. Paris just kept on thriving and living like it always had.
Jane was a very beautiful girl, almost dream-like. She had very long auburn hair, and green eyes, marked serious with copious amounts of eyeliner. Her face was gorgeously intimidating. She had good taste in fashion too. Around the beginnings of Fall, she would always wear this dark grey, tight-fitting trench coat, combined with a red scarf and knee-high black boots. She was incredibly playful and flirtatious, and I definitely felt, at all times, like I wasn’t cool enough to be with her. She seemed to crush every man she dated, and I was sure she would crush me, but I was blissfully ignorant of this fact, much like Paris was blissfully ignorant of the end of the world. I, of course, knew we couldn’t last forever, but that wouldn’t stop me from savoring it while it did.
Every afternoon I would lay in her bed, conversing playfully about fashion, politics, music, art, and philosophy. After the apocalypse had begun, we sort of just let things go. Her apartment looked like the vacant living space of a parent whose teenagers had partied in during a trip. Ashtrays were overflowing, empty bottles of wine and liquor were scattered all over the hardwood floor, amongst comforters used the prior night as makeshift beds. I will never forget that apartment, and Jane, and the smell of eggs and bacon combined with smoke in the early afternoon, after long nights of debate, sex, music, and drinking. I will never forget the light coming in through the window, or looking down at the everyday bustle of the street below. A jazz saxophonist sat every morning on street corner, playing for a few hours. It was peaceful there.
