At first, I wasn’t impressed; it reminded me of an oil rig. I’d read in the book Mom insisted I take with me, Paris for Dummies, that it was hate at first sight for the French. Gradually they learned to accept it as a permanent part of their horizon.

I wanted a photograph but I wanted to be in the picture, too. If I’d brought someone with me, they could’ve taken the picture. But I was relishing my newfound independence after leaving Carl, and I thought a trip for one to Paris would be a great way to celebrate being single again.

I positioned the camera up and away from me and snapped the picture.

“Pourquoi seulement ton chevelure? Tu es trop belle.”

I swung around and found a man standing there smirking at me. He was quite handsome, despite the smirk.

“Je suis désolée. Je ne parle pas française. Je suis Américaine.”

“Your French is formidable. For an American.”

I slipped my camera back into its case. “I guess men are jerks everywhere. Excusez-moi.”

As I turned to leave, he grabbed my hand.

“Wait!”