My Unromantic Paris

“So when will I next see you?” I ask, rolling over onto my front, my left hand gently caressing her wiry, raven hair.

“I don’t know”, she replies, her lips pursing, her naked body recoiling as she moves to get up. “This is getting too serious. I don’t want to hurt you…”

In posing what seemed like a perfectly legitimate post-coital question, I had inadvertently sealed my own fate. I would now spend the saddest, most awkward night of my life trying to fall asleep next to this girl — this devil in black lace — knowing that I would never see her again. I had coped with such knock-backs before, yet this somehow seemed different. This was more than just another rejection. This was life in the Paris dating scene.

For an English expatriate, Paris has everything to offer but the one intangible thing for which it became famous:

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