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It's such a French thing to light up a cigarette after sex, so that's what she did. She never wanted to leave Paris. She never wanted to leave the sight of lovers on balconies or women wearing lipstick to the patisserie on the corner. So, with her plane ticket home lying on the walnut dresser, she settled for clinging to a romantic habit or two. Down her throat went the thick smoke, and the pressure of the long, thin cigarette on her lips was comforting. It was about the only tangible thing she had left to hold on to. 

“Putain. Ça, c’était trop bien, ma chérie.” The words came in between soft pants. In a way, it was nice to know he had enjoyed himself.

Now, she just sort of wished he would get out, so that she could glare daggers into the wall and try not to think about her father’s death. Another long drag. The heady rush that accompanied the nicotine hit sent a shiver down her spine.

“Michel, je pense que tu devrais partir.” Fuck. It would’ve been easier if she hadn’t said his name. She always tried to avoid names. Michel, on the other hand…he loved using her name. He slipped it into conversation like he couldn’t control himself, like he couldn’t keep from tasting the consonants and vowels as they rolled off his tongue.

But this time, he just looked at her. In stilted, melodic English, he said, “I’ll take you to the airport. Tomorrow.” It was quiet. It sounded a little like, “I wish you would let me love you.”

Well, it's sort of the end of the year. By academic standards anyway. And I sit here, nearing my 19th birthday, one year into college, and I have broken everything and then put it all back together. It took night after night of tears and tension so intense I couldn't breathe, and yet, as I look forward to the summer and to the next year of school, I'm optimistic, and I am actually looking forward to it all. Strange how things that seemed nearly impossible four months ago (like finding success at a massive school and feeling good about myself again) are tangible and real to me now. It really hit me yesterday, as I was winding up my State Press interviews and taking my Grammar final, ecstatic after having found out that I'd received all the financial aid I'd counted on, that I am looking at my sophomore year of college as being filled with NRHH and the State Press and my good friends and classes I enjoy and (hopefully, crossing my fingers) a job. Basically, I feel good. Really good. And no, not everything is perfect. I fell out of a fucking table yesterday in a weird over-balanced mess of movement, and it was in front of people I would've rather been perfectly calm and collected around. But that's life, and after the deep bruise on my ego fades, it'll just be another story to tell. Plus, my non-existent love life is a bit of a sad story, too. But, on the whole? I'm actually getting along with my mom for the first time since I started college almost a year ago, and I am surrounding myself with good people who I care about and who care about me, too. My grades are solid, and for the most part (knock on wood), I'm healthy. So, I can deal with a little insecurity about boys, I think. So, looking back on this past year, it's pretty safe to say that while I wouldn't ever want to relive it, I also wouldn't want to re-do it. I am happy for all of the experiences I had in NY, good and bad. And I am happy about my life here in AZ. Things are good. It's good.