That night, we took a boat ride down the Seine, seeing the City of Lights in all its glory. The spirits emitted a beautiful, surprisingly un-eerie glow. I was admiring it all (again) when Mitch interrupted (again!). “I think you should know…”
I was glad he was talking to me again, as things had become tense, but I didn’t like his words. What should I know? And then he said the three words I’d been waiting for him to say. “I love you.”

Again, the poetry of France flowed through me, and with volubility, I said, “Really? Would you fly with me? Would you dance in the rain with me? Would you see for me, the way I do? Do you really love me like I love you?”
With a grin as large as I’d ever seen on his face, he answered, “Yes.”

“Then I take your word.”

That “yes”...it bound him, but neither of us knew it at the time.

And with a great deal of awkwardity he leaned down and touched his lips to mine. When it ended (sadly, as all things must), and he opened his eyes, I swear he nearly had a heart attack.