Positive Affirmations

My eyes open and I sharpen back into cognizance. The moonlight dims through the open window, casting pale shadows across my Parisian hotel room. Jean-Francois' arm is lightly clasped around me, his heavy breathing ventilating the back of my neck, the smell of cabernet sauvignon and cigarettes flowing in the wind. My Tom Ford for Gucci dress and heels are scattered across the floor in an unusual manner, as I'm usually very protective of my more outlandish purchases.

My brain shivers and I can tell the red wine is still activated inside of me, in which the realization begins to add horsepower to my overthinking Virgo as my mind begins to rev up.

These days, I'm living in a constant state of deja vu. I've already experienced this situation in my head. Back home in Los Angeles, I would set my alarm for work and take off my headphones, muting the messages I was receiving from The Secret audiobook. Pointing the portable fan towards my stack of pillows, I'd lay down in bed and close my eyes. Deep breathes in and out.

Think positive thoughts.

Visualize your desires.

His face pops up. I can smell the wine and woody eau de cologne on him as he tells me he's never met anybody like me in that inhabition-melting accent. The ripples on our palms bristle against each other as he grasps at my hands. His tousled hair with a few strands matted to his forehead by the sweat pulling from his pores. He's staring somewhere past my pupils, deep inside of me. I held on to that feeling.

"You are everything," He would say to me.

These weren't just pacifying thoughts. They were vibrating visuals. My brain would shake. I was replacing my reality with the reality that I wanted and submitting these images to the universe using my antennas, and now the frequencies have finally matched and this meeting had taken place in flesh and blood.

"I am healthy. I am wealthy. I am happy. I am with the man of my dreams," I would repeat to myself over and over again while ensnared on the highway on my way to work. The affirmations cut through the muted sounds of the mourning horns. "I am a professional painter. I am in Paris with my French boyfriend. I am happy. I am blessed," I continued.

A prototype had formed its way into my mind: tall, dark hair, brooding features, and an aquiline nose because perfection makes me anxious. The result of too many Godard binges, I'm sure.

I went from not being able to control my mind to being able to use my mind to control my future.

I shake my head and pull myself back towards my center. I trained myself to not think of the past so lucidly, good or bad. My brain operates on two planes: the present and the present-future.

Jean-Francois is still wrapped around me. His chest hairs scratching my back. his heart beating against my lats. Our warmth meets and radiates.

Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale.

I close my eyes and focus on my breathing. My mind is blank until his facial expressions of the night flash in front of me.

Jean-Francois bent in ecstasy.

His fingers hike my dress up even further as he positions himself for better angling, bending over enough, attempting to catch a nipple as my breasts bounces in the momentum. He moves his way towards my sternum and then around my neck until he finally reaches the destination at my rouge lips. Sweat drips down my armpit, staining the satin fabric. A single stilleto is dangling off of my toes.

When I grip my walls his eyes roll as the pace decreases.

I knew that would happen before he did.

He grunts and then shakes his head, glaring at me for attempting to take the power from him.

American women.

The speed increases again as the fire in his eyes immolate me. A grin spreads across his face. There's a few more tricks up his sleeve.

He stands on his toes, eclipsing my vision as he pulls my legs apart wider. My satin dress is completely bunched at my midsection now. The dry cleaners would know exactly how this happened.

Jean-Francois begins pounding, his hips gyrating and maneuvering, searching for it. Our flesh gives off a round of applause at his performance. I begin to feel it. Deeper. Depper. Until finally, he punches me right in the Grafenberg, and when he finds it he knows he does.

Now my eyes are rolling.

His breathing becomes more intense. I can tell he's giving his last bit of energy trying to squeeze it out of me and I'm almost there. I close my eyes and the stars begin aligning so perfectly in my head. Our connection was celestial. At this moment, I felt like this entire universe was made especially for me. The stars begin beaming brighter and brighter until my entire body is simmering.

I feel Francois contracting inside of me and I begin vibrating through the rainbow of every chakra, percolating through my bones all the way down to my feet.

When the heel hits the floor, I snap back into my center. Jean-Francois is still lightly snoring next to me. The moonlight still paints the room in blue and black textures.

Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale.

I try to focus on my breathing again.

"Is that me?" an accent wondered from behind me earlier tonight, pointing at the painting.

It was him

IT WAS HIM!

"Did you paint this?" he asked.

I've learned not to be shocked by these instances anymore, but this one threw me off. It was him.

My painting had been accepted into a showcase of up-and-coming American artists in Montmartre. I was a little wine tipsy, clacking through the gallery, shaking hands and smooching the sides of both cheeks. An Italian collector purchased my piece for ten thousand dollars. I had just been offered an opportunity to join a residency right here on the 18th arrondissement. The universe had conspired to get me everything I'd asked for.

I was standing in front of my painting, cradling my wine glass, repeating short bursts of gratitude to myself. Things had taken off in ways that were unexpected, even for my rich imagination. The paintbrush was dancing. Material items I lusted after materialized. But then I hear:

"Is that me?"

And I'm completely thrown off.

My Jean-Paul Belmondo. My Jean-Pierre Leaud. He stuck his hand out and introduced himself as Jean-Francois Legrand.

"That looks just like me," he reiterated, staring at the painting in blue hues, the svelte man with a pronounced nose yelping in ecstasy as his eyes roll towards the back of his head.

Our conversations were perfect. We ping-ponged intellect and his fluorescent smile beamed as I impressed. He kept telling me I was different from any woman he'd ever met. I could tell I held more weight in his eyes than he thought I did in his.

We staggered along the cobblestone towards my hotel, warm and giggling at nothing and everything. And then, we landed right here.

Back in the present.

My phone buzzes. Back in LA, people are just now dragging themselves out of work, headed towards the big parking lot on the 405. Jean-Francois subconsciously reacts and shifts towards the other side of the bed, falling back into stillness. I slowly maneuver my way out of the sheets and tiptoe towards the bathroom, turning the knob so that the latch doesn't click loudly when I close the door.

My hand flicks a switch and the bulbs illuminate the room and I walk towards the mirror, staring into my glazed pupils. I know what I possess. I'm an alchemist. I turn thoughts into tangibles. I'm efficacious.

"Thank you," I whisper over and over again. "Thank you for my gifts. Thank you for the blessings. Thank you for him."

A tear rolls down my cheek, but I continue. The same affirmations I used to exhale to center myself around this time when I was inching my way home from work.

"I am a professional painter. I am in Paris with my French boyfriend. I am happy. I am blessed."