I didn't want to look like just another tourist, but the billowing clouds of smoke were making that seem like an impossible task.

It wasn't that I was particularly averse to smoking- quite the opposite in fact. While I was in Paris I actually kind of enjoyed the occasional cigarette, but the close confines of the low-ceilinged café, coupled with the vibrating mass of cologned and perfumed bodies was making oxygen the scarcest good in the room. Discretely, so as not to offend the locals, I picked the cloth napkin up off of my lap and attempted the smallest cough I could muster.

"Je suis désolé," I apologized lamely.

Mission failed, the perfectly chic yet gamine Parisienne at the neighboring table glared at me. With the sniffling upturn of her gallic nose and the whip of her perfectly windswept chignon, I knew the offending action marked me as foreign. And not foreign in the non-Western, charming way that the Parisians seemed to simultaneously loathe and welcome, but foreign in the American way. The irritating way.

I give an apologetic smile to the back of her head as I folded my napkin into a square on the table. I didn't the resent the girl. Her typically French behavior was something I had come to expect from the moment my backpacked figure came tumbling out of the Gare du Nord station, hopelessly lost, when my very mediocre French had failed me.

I found that after a word or two in even the most butchered attempt at their language, nearly everyone I met was more than willing to point the daring, solo-traveling American girl in the right direction. In fact, the young men of Paris were particularly charitable, if not a little forward. I found it charming though, an adventure is what I was after, even if I didn't completely succeed in finding one.

I tossed a 20 Euro note onto the quintessentially French café table, taking a long second to appreciate the worn, pressed steel that circled the impossibly small thing. How two people could share such a table when I could barely eat on it by myself was beyond my comprehension. It was just another 'cultural difference' that made me appreciate the French that much more.

"Putain de merde! Va te faire foutre!"

"Arrêt, Sophie! S'il te plaît… "

The mulling room quieted for a split-second as every head in the café shot to the booth in the back corner. A beautiful blond looked livid, a full glass of tepid water clasped threateningly in her hand ready to be thrown, I surmised, from the colorful language being exchanged between the two. Lover's quarrel. I bit back a smile. How typically Paris.

"Brûle dans l'enfer!" the girl yelled, much to the chagrin and fascination of everyone in the restaurant.

Dinner and a show? A bargain at half the price.

The man got up, trying to quiet her again, but she was past her breaking point. The poised water glass was quickly emptied as she thrust it toward him with an artful flick of her wrist. She looked as if she had done it before. She stormed off in the direction of the bathroom, and the room quieted again, the spat already forgotton as the patrons went back to their discussions of post-modernist philosophy or Carla Bruni's latest faux paux.

I got up, the outburst at the once picturesque booth in the back corner acting as my cue to leave. I was tired of watching. It was my last night in Paris, a measly 12 hours, and I knew I had spent too much of this trip as a spectator. I wanted my last hours here to be felt, really lived.

I squeezed past the impossibly narrow rows between the tables, turning periodically when faced with the decision of which people seemed more appropriate to have my backside to or vice-versa. It was something that always made me wildly uncomfortable when in close quarters, putting my rear end near someone's face as I shuffled past, no matter which way I did it, it seemed always to lack dignity.

"Pardon," I said shuffling past one man.

"Excusez-moi," I muttered, stepping around another.

"Je suis désolé," I said with a scant, escaping breath, bumping into the chest of a particularly leery man.

He placed his hands on my sides, steadying me, and I cursed my characteristically bad balance. He smiled at me for a little too long, his hands still on me as I pushed away from his chest. I gave him another apologetic smile as I passed, quickening my step to burst through the heavy door just behind him.

"Bonsoir, Mademoiselle!" I heard him call after me, just as the door swung shut.

I leaned against the bit of wall just alongside the door, taking a few breaths of the new air, a mixture of the most delicious foodsmells tainted with just the lightest hint of exhaust, quite charming actually. The crispness of the air had me suddenly wanting a cigarette, odd considering I had only just escaped the clutches of the smoky room. I felt around in my jacket pocket, knowing I had a nearly finished pack somewhere.

I might as well have one, I thought, there's no way I'm going back to the States with a smoking habit.

I found the pack of Malboro Ultra Lights in my inside pocket.

"Ha!" I said quietly to myself, though still triumphant, "Now where's that damn lighter?"

I mumbled as I patted myself down, my chin in my chest and a cigarette between my lips as I tried to work my fingers into the too-tight buttonholes of my side pockets. A lit butt appeared just in front of my nose, the glowing heat of the embers close enough that I immediately recoiled.

I stumbled backward, into the wall, and my head shot up. My eyes went slightly wide at the striking man in front of me.

"Sorry," he said, his green eyes crinkling just barely with a smile, "I didn't mean to scare you."

"Y-y-you're American," I stammered, toying with the hem of my sleeves as the white of the cigarette bobbed before my eyes with every syllable, feeling embarrassed immediately at such an elementary and superficial observation.

He nodded, still smiling and still holding out his lit cigarette," So are you."

I nodded dumbly in response, too immersed in the infinite green-hazel of his eyes to wonder how he knew.

"Now where's that damn lighter?" he said, mimicking my earlier self-directed question, "I just used my last match, but here…"

He stretched his hand out just a little further, offering the lit cigarette to me again.

"Um… I…"

I stammered again, taking the cigarette out of my mouth, not knowing what to say.

"I don't usually smoke!" I burst out for no reason, "It's a vacation thing…" I said almost apologetically.

He raised an eyebrow at me, questioning and simultaneously amused.

"Okaaaaay," he said slowly, "Well, neither do I."

My brow furrowed, disbelieving, "Really?"

He laughed, "Yes, really. I go back tomorrow as a matter of fact! So I might as well finish this last pack, right?"

He seemed slightly offended, though still amused, at my immediate reluctance to believe his words, probably undue when I expected him to easily accept mine.

"Me too," I agreed, my words slightly slurred around the cigarette I had just replaced between my lips, "I go back tomorrow too."

He gave me another appraising look, his eyes traveling up my body just once, tauntingly slow. My insides squelched at the obvious insinuation in the look and I cleared my throat to stop him, playing the part of the good girl. He gave me another dazzling smile before he took steps forward, his chest nearly touching mind. My breath faltered as his fingertips came dangerously close to my lips, his earthy smell and just a hint of cologne mingling pleasantly in the air around me. He plucked the cigarette from my mouth and I licked my lips unconsciously the moment he pulled it away.

He smiled at me again, reassuring yet burning with his easily won intensity. It probably came naturally to him, that smoldering look, it was a mainstay of all men that looked the way he did; it was like the membership card to the club. He moved to place my unlit cigarette between his lips and I opened my mouth to protest, but when he gave me a challenging 'tut' I quickly quieted. He touched the cherry to the end, his deliciously full lips closing around the cigarette that had only just been in my mouth, and inhaled… Sexily. I didn't know that breathing could be sexy, but watching the way his eyelashes fluttered just barely as he inhaled and the sound of the softest moan rumbling from his throat as he exhaled confirmed it. Breathing could be sexy. Almost painfully sexy. He offered it to me and I took it, his fingers brushing against mine.

"But it's been in your mouth," I complained lamely, only half a protest, bouncing just slightly on the balls of my feet.

He waived away my feigned objection and came to lean into the wall at my side, leaving a comfortable amount of space between us. I fingered the suddenly foreign object between my middle and index finger, eyeing it to keep myself from looking at him. I swallowed, seeing him bustle in my peripheral vision; he was waiting to see if I would be so daring as to share DNA with a man I barely knew. Shrugging my shoulders and not wanting to look the bumbling mass of nerves that I felt, I lifted it to my lips and took in a deep drag, my own eyelids closing at the familiar sensation of the taste.

He swallowed loudly and I smiled to myself. Apparently I wasn't the only one who might find the simple act of breathing sexy. I turned to him, keeping my shoulder against the wall, feeling suddenly emboldened. I flicked the ash off the tip of my cigarette, flecks of black and white fluttering through invisible tunnels in the air.

He spoke before I could.

"You make it look good," he said simply.

Was he flirting with me just to avoid all things awkward? I couldn't say he was. I thought it might be genuine. The potential of my last night in Paris resulted in an extra ten minutes of hair and makeup and a particularly luxurious ensemble. I took a moment's pause to think of a flirty repartee, but stopped when I noticed the water spots on his shirt.

It wasn't raining.

"YOU!" I pointed at him, bursting with sudden laughter, pushing myself off the wall, "You're the asshole from inside!"

His cheeks reddened at my accusation, his swagger disappearing before my eyes, the smoldering look fizzling into obvious embarrassment. He rolled the loose gravel under the heel of his boot, opting not to make eye contact.

I stepped toward him, pulling at his still wet shirt with my thumb and forefinger, my laughter doubling over as it sucked itself to his chest, refusing to part with his skin.

"Well? What do you have to say for yourself?" I questioned playfully, poking at his chest with each question.

He pushed my hands away playfully, groaning, "Okay... YES! Fine, it was me…Are you happy?"

I sighed, falling back into my place beside him, looking into the nearly deserted Rue du Faubourg St. Antoine.

"Yes," I admitted, "it was quite amusing. Lover's quarrel?"

"Hardly," he said, taking a shallow hit on his cigarette, "The exact opposite actually."

"Suuuuure," I said sarcastically, "Because women love to throw water into the faces of their… non-lovers."

"I swear," he chuckled, "She just wasn't happy that I didn't tell her I was leaving tomorrow. But I only just met her this afternoon!"

"Uhhhh huh."

"No really! I saw her sitting in the gardens at the Musée Rodin. How was I supposed to know that the blank stare was actually empty and not pensive?"

"Mmmm hmmm…"

"I haven't even kissed her!"

"Sure thing. I'm sure you're just a perfect angel," I drolled, "I'm sure that whole 'lighting the cigarette' and 'smoldering look' was just a one-time thing too, right?"

"Actually, that's exactly right."

"I'm sure you're just starving for company aren't you?" I laughed, "Poor lonely boy," I teased, mock-pouting at him.

His eyes went suddenly serious, even a little sad. "A person could be in the company of a hundred people and still be lonely. Physical companionship and emotional fulfillment aren't the same thing. Only in love are the two in collusion."

At that moment a cab pulled up, the driver rolling down the passenger side window and yelling out in heavily accented French.

"Well," he said suddenly, pushing off the wall, "that's me."

"Of course it is," I sighed.

"It was a pleasure," he said, bowing dramatically, his eyes never leaving mine.

I smiled brightly at him, savoring the moment. He would be nothing more than an anecdote in the stories I told back home, a flash of a memory between the lawns of the Sacré-Cœur and the stained glass windows of La Saint-Chapelle, and somehow I knew it would be enough.


He flicked the last of his cigarette into the curb, not caring to stomp out the glowing embers. He climbed in, giving me one last look through the open window before the cab took off. I watched him drive away, my eyes locked on his. Taking my last drag, I gave him an uncharacteristically flirtatious wink before turning to the other direction. I sighed, walking under the light of bright shop fronts and peering through archways into pastoral courtyards as I passed. I love Paris.

The sound of screeching tires stopped me just as I turned the corner.


I slowed, knowing that just beyond that corner was the promise for a safe haven. I had the urge to run, to just keep going, to disappear. It would have been the safer choice, the sure thing. A night in Paris, one last night, walking the streets I would miss the most…by myself.

"Miss! Wait!"

I turned around, my decision still unmade.

"Yeah?" I called back, stopped in my spot.

"Come with me!" he called, his eyes shining with the promise of an adventure.

"I don't even know you!" I yelled, ignoring the confused looks of an elderly couple as they stepped around me on the street.

"Well," he carried on, not missing a beat, "Get to know me!"

His boyish enthusiasm was impossible to ignore, the glint in his eye more charming than anything he had pulled out thus far. Looking at him, I knew the night would be anything but boring, the opposite of safe. 18 years of careful, self-imposed maturity was protesting somewhere inside of me. No! Don't do it! I shook my head at him, just barely, refusing his invitation, agreeing with the voices in my head. He was leaning out, his upper body hanging over the edge of the window.

He pouted at me playfully and shrugged, "Please?"

I took a step toward him and stopped. Don't do it. Do it. Don't do it. Do it! I teetered on my feet, my teeth worrying my bottom lip, my hand clenching and unclenching into fists at my side. Everything about him screamed reckless, screamed playboy, and while I knew that I probably shouldn't have, I took a step forward…. Then backward…Another two steps forward… And another… And finally, I broke into a run…

I knew what I needed …

…And what I needed was an adventure.



The pout worked?! There's no way the pout worked! I suppressed the desire to pound my chest or yell in triumph, but the fact that she was running toward me filled me with such an overwhelming sense of victory that the more primal urges of male preening came surging to the surface. And it wasn't just her overwhelming beauty either. No, it was more than that. It was the way her mood changed faster than I could keep up: Happy. Shy. Playful. Pensive. Nervous. Innocent. Bold. I wanted so badly to understand what caused each change; I wanted so badly to be the reason for it.

She was nearly at the car and I could see the flush of her cheeks. The short, labored puffs of her exerted breath caused her chest to rise and fall against the tight bodice of her dress and I knew that I wanted her impossibly. But I wouldn't push the boundaries this night. No, for our last night in Paris, I would be a gentleman. I didn't know her, but I knew she deserved that. Besides, I reasoned with myself, you're getting ahead of yourself. No expectations.

I opened the door and our eyes met, each of us slightly delirious with the possibility of the night. She leaned her forearm against the frame of the open door, taking a moment to catch her breath, her lips breaking into a grin over her perfectly white teeth.

"Well?" she demanded, leaning her forehead onto her arm, "What now?"

"I don't know," I said honestly, I hadn't really thought of what would happen if she agreed. "What do you want to do?"

"I don't know either," she said laughing softly, pulling away from the frame of the door.

"Get in!" I exclaimed, a little too eagerly, worried she might already be changing her mind.

She smiled a knowing, secret smile and scooted in next to me, shutting the door behind her.

"Paris," she said with finality. "All of it, any part of it, I want to see as much of it as I can."

She said it with such a completely authentic sense of wonder that I had no choice but to please her.

"Paris," I agreed, knowing that her request would be far more difficult than it sounded.

I looked at my watch, 8:17pm. Perfect.

I shuffled forward to speak to the driver.

"Le Centre Pompidou, s'il vous plaît."

"The modern museum?" she asked surprised as I settled in next to her. "That's your choice?"


She shook her head, "Nothing. I just didn't think that was what you would pick…"

I bristled uncomfortably at the ever-so-slightly patronizing tone.

"And what did you think I would pick?" I asked as the driver took off.

"An after hours place? A club? An underground casino? Maybe even a brothel…"

I laughed, her teasing toeing the line between the absurd and the feasible.

"Oh, there's time for that yet…"

"Really? I have an 8am flight, you know."

As I watched the intricacies of Paris' architecture come alive under the glare of our headlights as we passed, I felt suddenly nostalgic for the city I wanted so badly to fall in love with.

"Like I said," I murmured turning to her, noticing the flecks of gold in her deep brown eyes for the first time, "All the time in the word...."



We sat in amicable silence, each of us leaning into our respective windows, each of us lost in our own thoughts, trying to memorize different sides of the same street. Just beyond the row of shop fronts that flashed past my eyes I noticed the beginning of the Périphérique, the suburbs. Odd, that was the opposite direction of where we should have been heading.

I looked into the rearview mirror and caught the cab driver staring at me just before he quickly looked away. Hmmm.

I scooted into the middle of the seat, my shoulder touching his.

"Psst," I whispered to him, trying to get his attention though he seemed lost in the scenery.

"Psst, hey," I tried again, pulling at his sleeve this time.

"Oh sorry," he apologized, leaning into me. "I was wra-"

"I think this guy is taking us for a ride," I mumbled into his ear.

"Well," he said, "I think that's the point…"

I rolled my eyes. "Yes! Thank you. I meant taking us for a ride."

I said it in a bad-movie voice, but he did me the service of looking around anyway.

"Wow. Where are we?"

"Exactly!" I hissed, wagging my eyebrows, "Taking us for a ride…."

"Would you stop saying it like that?" he groaned, "It's making it worse."

He laughed at the look on my face, not seeming to care too much about the cabbie that was trying to rip us off. He turned back into the window, continuing to soak in the details of the picturesque street.

"Hey!" I said again, "Aren't you going to say something?"

He faced me, a crooked smirk on his lips. "Why? You said you wanted to see Paris. All of it. He'll get us there eventually…"

"Eventually?!" I stage-whispered, ignoring the way the driver turned his head to us, just slightly.

"Yes" he said, "Eventually."

"We're practically in the Banlieue! This is going to be a 50 Euro cab ride, you know…"

His eyebrow raised just slightly.

"Hmm, you're probably right," he agreed, reaching for the wallet in his back pocket, "I better make sure I have enough for a tip."

"A tip?!" I remarked incredulously. Was he kidding?

"It would be rude not to leave one…"

"He's trying to rip us off!"

He laughed, fingering through the bills in his wallet, "Well… We might not have to worry about that… I thought I had more in here."

The two of us leaned into the middle of the seat, each of us trying to get a look at fare-ticker in the front console.

36.25… 36.75…37.25….

We seemed to be circling back into the direction of the city center, I saw the vast courtyard of Les Halles just ahead of us; we were nearly there.

"Well… It's too late now!" I hissed, fumbling through my purse for the loose bills I had stashed there, opting earlier to forego my usual monstrosity of a wallet, "How much do you have?"

"No," he said, stilling my fumbling hands over the fabric of my purse. "I've got it."

"What do you mean you've got it? Do you have enough?"

"Well… not exactly…"

"Then let me pay my—" I stopped; realizing that my purse was empty save for my hotel key and a pot of lip gloss. "What the hell?"

"What? Is something wrong?"

"I had money in here!" I exclaimed, turning my purse upside down. "100 Euros. It's gone."

"You lost your wallet? Your passport?" he asked, the smallest sign of distress evident in his voice for the first time all night.

"No! I left those at my hotel, but I brought some cash… Where is it?" I asked myself, feeling around all of the corners in my now empty bag.

He laughed a booming laugh. He leaned into me, whispering, "I guess we're just going to have to make a break for it then."

"What?!" I yelled, too loudly, the cab driver looking at us suspiciously.

"I only have 20 Euros in my wallet, and while I'm sure he wouldn't mind waiting while I hit up the ATM, you said yourself that he was trying to rip us off…"

"Yes, I did say that, but—"

"But what? You don't have any cash and I don't have enough… When he stops, get ready to run."

"NO way! There's no way!"

"You're going to have to do it, Pretty Girl. Otherwise, you're going to have to be left here all by your lonesome, 'cause I'm bookin' it."

"Okay, wait a second… We can stop at an ATM, we can even go back to my hotel room to get some cash!"

He raised an eyebrow at the word 'hotel room', but I was too panicked to scold him.

"Get ready…" he said mischievously, the cab slowing in front of the vast courtyard that was off-limit to vehicles, "Run to your right…"

"What?! No, please! Just wait…"

"GO!" he yelled, throwing open his door and flinging the 20 Euro note into the front seat just as soon as the cab rolled to a stop.

I squeaked as I let my flight instinct take over, heaving open my door and running to my right through the empty courtyard just as he told me to. I heard the faint sounds of the driver yelling swear words at us and looked back, just for a second, to see him shaking his fist at us from outside of the cab. He ran a few yards, but the results of his sedentary lifestyle quickly made it a failed pursuit.

I increased my pace, the minimalist scaffolding and the signature primary colored tubes of piping snaking through the front of the Centre Georges Pompidou signaling the location of our safe haven.

"Over here!" he called, waving me forward to an open door partially obscured by a contemporary work of art – a concrete slab topped with a comically large metallic gold pot.

I slipped in under his arm, collapsing immediately into his chest, laughing hysterically, the rush of adrenaline leaving my body a ball of quivering nerves. I gasped for air, doubled over and clutching my stomach, tears building in my eyes from the rolling giggles that seemed to have no end in sight. I tried to straighten, find my breath, but the thought of the irate cabbie flashed in my mind and my laughter came again in a renewed effort. I quieted, a few moments later, only after I realized I was the only one laughing.

He was staring at me, his eyes wide, a mixture of awe and arousal that was impossible to deny. I realized that I was still in his arms, pressed against his chest, our bodies touching in the most intimate places. I wiggled out of his grasp, apologizing.

"Sorry," I said mumbling, my cheeks flushing pink for an entirely new reason. "It's just he was so… angry."

I giggled softly again, brushing the pads of my fingertips into my dewy cheeks, then waving at them with open hands. My body was still tingling with the happy mix of warmth and adrenaline.

"So…" he said, tearing his eyes away from me, seemingly reluctant.

"The bastion of Modern Art in Paris," he said grandly, a sweeping flourish of his arm to match, "What do you think?"

I took a look around for the first time, actually noticing the vastness of the white marble grand room, banners with all sorts of abstract pictures and bright colors hanging from the exposed industrial rafters, neon signs of numbers and arrows taking the space that they had not. Glowing orbs of white glass hung sporadically all around the room; light-fixtures as art; it was as modern as could be. I decided that I liked it, even if I didn't completely understand it.

I smiled at him and nodded.

I noticed a mulling mass of bodies waiting in line to enter the museum. Against the stark contrast of the windowed walls the darkness looked suddenly out of place.

"Wait… Isn't the museum supposed to be closed?"

"Ahh…" he said playfully, "You noticed that."

"Well… yeah?"

"Tonight is the Nuit des Musées."


He motioned me toward the queue of people, talking as he walked. "Once in a while, some of the museums stay open late, usually until 1am, sometimes later…"

"Oh!" I said excitedly, "Cool."

"Yes," he agreed, "Very cool. And free."

He smiled at me teasingly, "So you won't have to worry about that not having any money thing, not that I thought of that when I decided that we were coming, it just turned out to be a happy coincidence…"

"Really though, I swear I put money in here…"

I turned, patting the purse that hung loosely at my side, half open.

"Well, if you've been carrying it like that the entire time you've been here, it's a small miracle that you haven't been pick-pocketed already. They usually just pretend to bump into you and are gone before you even know it…"

I gasped in realization, "This creepy dude bumped into me at the café!"

He nodded, "Well, there you go."

"Ugh!" I groaned, feeling duped, "Well this is totally all your fault then!"

"My fault? How so?"

"Well, I wouldn't have gotten up to leave if it wasn't for your little display in the back!" I said accusing him playfully.

He shuffled forward, looking at me out of the corner of his eye, "I was that irritating, huh? I'm sorry I ruined your dinner…"

"No!" I disagreed, feeling bad for him, "It wasn't that… It just made me want to…I was just tired of watching things and not really living them…"

"So do you want to throw a glass of water at me too?" he questioned, perking up just slightly.

I laughed, "No, I don't think I want that either."

"Then what do you want?" he said, his voice suddenly serious as the smoldering intensity in his eyes returned.

"I don't know what I want… But I think I just want to really live, you know? I want everything that life has to offer. I want the world, and not just the parts I can see," I said it breathlessly, the longing in my voice wistful even to my own ears. I frowned, "Does that make any sense?"

"Yes, Pretty Girl," he said using the name he had in the cab as we shuffled forward together, our steps totally in sync, "It makes perfect sense."



We walked through the exhibits in our own private world, the pauses in conversation came only when we felt the need to comment –or mock – the occasionally intriguing piece. She talked about her childhood in Phoenix and a flighty but loveable Mom. Her voice was thick with fondness and a touch of sadness when she described her life in a small town with a lonely, but virtuous father. The only similarity of the two, it seemed, was the affection she held for them both. The character of her observations changed as rapidly as her demeanor: Mature. Amused. Reverent. Hopeful.

I wanted to let her enjoy the art, she seemed to like it, but I couldn't bear the silencing of her voice. I threw her question after question, plowing through answers when she asked me the same. We talked about music and our experiences in travel. She was backpacking alone, but it was more out of her own desire than her inability to find a willing companion. She had friends, good ones, the kind Angela and the playful Jacob being the two she seemed most fond of. And she was sure to point out that Jacob was just that – a friend. She was single, she admitted to me softly, her innocence a refreshing change from the tarts and bimbos that usually approached me. She was sans romance… sans attachment.

We walked through gallery after gallery for hours, talking and laughing, sharing our most embarrassing experiences and, briefly, our desires for the future. She wasn't sure what she wanted and I admitted, neither was I. We both shared a wide-eyed moment of panic at the coming unknown, the precipice of childhood and an adult life, college looming in the near future for both of us. It was only after I noticed that we were nearly alone in the cavernous rooms, our only company the oversized pieces of furniture lumped together as modern art, that I realized it was nearly1 am.

"We have to go," I said sadly just as the final announcements came over the museum's loud speaker. "They're closing soon."

"Time's up?" she said, her eyes mirroring the sadness in mine. "Time to go home?"

"No," I said shaking my head, looking at my watch "Not home just yet. We still have… 7 hours and 13 minutes, right?"

"All the time in the world," she said, taking her turn to mimic my earlier words as her eyes brightened, pulling at the invisible strings in my heart.

I chuckled, trying to keep the conversation light though I knew that I was drowning in this.

"It's about time you caught on…"


A/N: Yes, I know that the Nuit des Musées is in May, but they have other museum nights throughout the year… But I couldn't remember if the Centre Georges Pompidou did those too…

Read and Review? I'm already done writing this thing. I think.