“You’re so young, though. How long have you been working here?”

“This is my fifth year working for this museum. I am 28, surely not too young to be a curator?”

I blushed for like the hundredth time. “Oh no, of course not. I think it’s great. It sounds like an awesome job.”

“It is.” He looked around him, taking in the priceless paintings hanging on the walls, letting his eyes soak them in. He turned back to me.

“And you? What do you do in America?”

“Me? I’m just a student at NYU . I’m studying for my Master’s in English Literature.”

“NYU?”

“That’s a university in New York. I go there. I live there, too, in a dorm. I have a roommate who’s 18 and always coming in at the crack of dawn. I guess that’s what you get for still living on campus when you’re 25.” I sighed. I was talking way too much, like I did whenever I got nervous. He was probably bored.

To my surprise, he was still looking at me intently. “I have never been to New York. I hear it is beautiful.”

“It is, but not like this. Not like Paris.”