The next day, I took a cab to the Jardin des Tuileries. I had purchased some bread, cheese and grapes at the grocery store across the street from my hotel, and so I enjoyed a little picnic by myself sitting on a blanket in the middle of the gardens.

I was surrounded by an endless sea of lovers. Young, old, men with women, women with women, men with men. They all had one thing in common, though; they were oblivious to everything except for each other.

I sat alone, flipping through a collection of e.e. cummings’s poetry. I found myself turning to my favorite poem. I’d read it at least a million times before:

And the coolness of your smile is
stirringofbirds between my arms;but
i should rather than anything
have(almost when hugeness will shut
quietly)almost,
your kiss

And what would it be like to kiss Sebastian? I’d made up my mind to kiss him tonight, if he didn’t do it first. I was sick and tired of waiting for the guy to make the first move. It was my turn.