I’ve been to Paris three times, and I still feel like I don’t know her.
But man, can she swing.
“The evening before, sitting in the bar area of the Parisian hostel, the memory of him rushing through the closing doors played over and over.
Swigging a glass of cheap red wine, I attempted to explain to my co-worker, Jasmin, how I knew Marion, an explanation immediately followed with –
“You’re going to stay at her house… and you haven’t seen her in fifteen years?”
“It was in 2014, while I was visiting my friend Marion, her husband Laurent, and their petit bébé, Lou.
It was my last day there. Marion and I were sitting on her balcony in Antony, and she was smoking a cigarette. Smoke bellowed out of her perfectly lipsticked mouth, as she said, with her immaculate French accent:
“Melissa, for you, I want a beautiful love story. A fairy tale.”
“As I walked down Avenue Gustave, I gazed up at the tower lovingly, as most cliche tourists do. Holding up my phone, I gesture to my companion.
“Let me take a picture of you,” I say.
As I’ll realize in a later visit to the city, I always seem to be struggling with romantic endeavors when I’m here.”
“Oh, so you don’t dance?” I hear someone say.
I look besides me, and there’s the shortest man I’ve ever seen in real life. He looks expectant, and if I’m guessing correctly, about 80 years old.
He scoffs, in the way that only the French seem to be able to.