Missing In Paris

Chapter 27

Two weeks had now passed since Neela saw Luc for the final time. Her twice weekly French classes had yet to begin, which left her to focus on freelance deadlines, while searching for more work in her spare time. More accurately speaking, she spent most of her time creeping Luc's social media, eating pastries, and endlessly browsing websites for designer handbags she couldn't afford—all for the thrill of moving them into her online cart just to feel something. All along she kept reminding herself that time healed all wounds, even the ones you inflicted on yourself when making dramatic spectacles at engagement parties.

Time was Neela's friend, so she took a little more of it now as she enjoyed one of her classic reflective strolls along the riverbank.

Or at least it appeared that she was enjoying it.

On this perfect late summer evening when the breeze was warm and happiness filled the air, Neela was adopting the age-old strategy that had been used for generations:

-Fake it 'til you make it

Neela's fake resilience was somewhat hampered by the fact that her hair looked greasy and flat, but that was due to the shitty showerhead pressure in her shitty apartment, not due to her being too depressed to wash her hair.

Progress.

She now strolled up the steps to the "Pont des Arts," the former love-lock bridge that years earlier, had been scrubbed of any sign of 'Master Lock romance' to prevent the bridge's collapse.

The wooden planks creaked with the weight of her footsteps, as she weaved through couples and squeezed her way to a spot with the best view.

The Eiffel Tower stood majestic in the distance, as the warm golden light teased at the glorious sunset to come.

She pulled out her phone and snapped a pic, before captioning her latest 'fake it 'til you make it' Instagram story:

Waiting on another Parisian sunset, a.k.a. BLISS...

***

A few blocks away, 'magic hour' took the form of that special time when neighbourhood cafés converted into bottomless glasses of wine, endless chatter, and patrons spilling out onto the streets.

Or in other words the start of after-dinner drinks.

At one of the tables, Dante watched the attractive Frenchman across from him laugh it up at his latest joke.

Dante wasn't looking too shabby himself, with hair full of volume and skin as pore-less as ever.

He was back.

This was Dante's first real date since casual flirtations at the French château, along with a recent Grindr hook-up that had been almost as efficient as takeout delivery.

It seemed shocking to him that he'd been chatting with this Frenchman for three straight hours. The more they chatted, the more it seemed like that dark corner of his heart might actually see the light of joy once again. Time had a way of making things like that conceivable—as long as you realized that time was unwilling to fast forward for anyone. That was the bargain that people made with 'time,' and for Dante, his reluctant contract with this powerful force was finally starting to seem worth it.

His attractive date whispered something into his ear and Dante burst into laughter.

As he caught his breath, he felt the full weight of how great things were going on this very special evening made for two.

And then they kissed.

As the Frenchman pulled away, he smiled warmly at Dante. "How about a walk along the river?" he said, his words delivered in that perfect silky French that could convince you to commit a murder. "It's going to be a beautiful night," he added.