Paris

Portuguese, not quite French. She wasn't as beautiful as I would have preferred. Still, her body was built for making love. The clouds picked up drops of the Seine and sprinkled our faces as we stood on the Pont Alexandre III, staring at Eiffel's Tower, glowing orange through the night's fog. "The view is nice, but I prefer not to have rain in my face," she forced through broken English. I don't love her, and I shan't. The rain began to fall harder on our uncovered heads, the street lamps that line the bridge illuminating my fantasy. "You look happy," she said, taking notice of my authentic grin, spattered with rain.

The tower's flashing lights accompanied our ascent, as if proclaiming our arrival, or rather, mine. She believes everything happens for a reason, she's had prophetic dreams. The dates of our trip aligned, and that was significant, she told me. I looked out over the City of Light, nodding and mumbling my disingenuous agreement, unable to separate myself from my revelry, as she can. "Can you take of me," she inquired, holding the camera in the position she wanted the photograph taken, as if, because I hadn't brought one of my own, I didn't understand the process.

A September wind was blowing strong at a thousand feet, frigid against our damp clothes. The invigorating chill engulfed my senses and I breathed deep the life, the vigor that was my companion. "I am so cold," she complained, shivering as I put my arms around her. The moon rose out of the west and I could feel its gravity; my gaze drawn to its dusky radiance. She kissed me passionately, succumbing to the city's devastating romance. I was alone, and that is how I prefer to be inspired. My one true love, hovering ghostly through the sky, felt closer than ever.