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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.”