They told me Paris was a nightmare: all crowded streets and whispers of smoke. Everyone here sucks their cigarettes down like air; the city is starving for the anti-smoking campaigns that plague our screen at home. My French is elementary at best (offensive at worst), but I try anyway. 

Je veux, I start, but you correct me, accent impeccable. 

Je voudrais, you say. It’s the polite way. Your words are soaked in honey, so I can’t help but swallow them. Your English is dipped in French, but where it makes my attempts at ordering crude, it makes you charming. 

The streets of Paris snake together, and I stop at every boutique and cafe. Rich fabrics flow beneath my fingers, sweet silks and breezy cottons begging for a place in my wardrobe. I turn wine I am too young to have at home over my tongue before passing the glass back to you. But it isn’t the wine that makes me drunk—rather, it’s the crisp pastries that spill crumbs across my dress and the lights of the Eiffel Tower. 

My hotel is too expensive, the sheets too luxurious, the carpet too clean. But the view is nearly worth the hole in my bank account. Paris spills across the horizon like the strands of your golden hair over our pillows. Stars here are barely visible, faded by the puddles of light that pour from every window. My phone buzzes with missed calls and texts from worried parents and frantic friends asking me if I’ve landed safely, if I’m having fun, but my thoughts are on you. The warmth of a body beside me, richer than any silk. 

I’ve gotten used to the smoke now, though I still don’t partake as tendrils of it come out of your nose. Paris is only for a few days, a single chord in my symphony, but it is one of the sweetest. Each day passes in a blur, my feet aching by the time I kick off my heels. 

Tonight, we’ll dance, you tell me. The words are quick, each running into the next like watercolors. 

All this walking and now you’re going to have me dance? I reply, already crawling into the covers. You pry me from my hovel, arms wrapped around my waist as you weave through the clothes I’ve thrown around the room. You sit me on the bathroom counter, kicking my stilettos out of the way and handing me a hairbrush. 

Brush, you say, a command but the laughter twinkles like stars in your brown eyes. I have a surprise. You say surprise like the French, the way I can only mimic like a shattered echo. Years I have taken the language, scrawling frantically in an uncomfortable high school desk, but I could never match you. 

I’m done! I yell, though the comb has not even touched my hair. You return laughing with a white dress folded over your arm. 

Liar, you exclaim, taking the mess into your own hands. Americans cannot even brush their own hair. Gentle fingers on my scalp, parting and carefully untangling the black web. I can brush my hair, but I prefer when you do. 

It’s cool outside now, the raging sun giving way to a gentle night. You hum as we walk through the streets, fingers intertwined, heads tilted towards each other as if we

are planets caught in each other’s orbit. I don’t think of the end, of when we will be cast to opposite sides of the solar system. I don’t think, because tonight we have the stars and exorbitantly priced drinks and honey laced words. 

The speakers pound in time with my head, words I can’t quite pronounce, but a melody I scream nonetheless. My voice is sandpaper by the time I come off the dance floor. And there you are, holding my drink in the corner, eyes reflecting the flashing lights that dye my skin blue. I take the cup from you, downing the bitter drink in just one sip. It burns my throat, a fire licking at the hoarseness, yet I can’t help but love it. 

Thank you for holding my drink, I say, but it’s too loud for you to hear. You bend your head to my mouth and I repeat myself, drunk off the alcohol and the music and the perfume of your cigarettes. You smile and nod, though I don’t think you even heard my words. 

Let’s go? I ask, jerking my head to the exit. I could fly above the city tonight, back across the ocean and home with you in tow. You nod and take my hand. For once, the streets are empty. Everyone piles into clubs and restaurants, only the occasional cafe open to welcome any drunkards looking to sober up. But I don’t want to sober up, because then my soaring soul will return to my body. I will fly over my city of love for as long as possible, until the dawn touches her finger to the horizon. I haven’t seen any of the tourist sites. I tug on your arm, leading you through the stone streets. I’m thankful for my sneakers, for being able to run through Paris past midnight with you by my side. 

Where are we going? You ask, laughter bubbling under every word, though you know this city better than I do. We’re going to the home of the greatest art, where our love will be immortalized, even if it is memory rather than paint. 

I only slow when I catch sight of the illuminated pyramid, a glowing obelisk in a city already crowded with lights. You crash into me and for a second I cannot tell where you end and I begin. Your shoes nearly crush my feet, but you manage to right yourself just in time. 

The Louvre, you say. Good choice. Your fingers wrap ribbons around mine, soft hands brushing over my callouses. 

It’s so very late, or possibly early, but we sit with our backs against the cool glass of one of the smaller structures and face west. As if by ignoring the sunrise, we can prevent dawn. My head rests in the shadow of yours, two pieces clicking together so effortlessly it seems impossible that we were ever apart. Around us fountains bubble steadily, and the occasional lone couple passes us by wordlessly, entranced in their own spells. But tonight, the Louvre, and all its masterpieces, are ours. If I tilt my head, I can make out the shadow of the spiral staircase inside I will never set foot on, at least not any time soon, considering my mid-morning flight. The Mona Lisa is closer than it’s ever been, but it will have to wait. 

You don’t speak, don’t dare to utter the words that will end our night. Maybe someday we’ll meet again, but probably not. Soon enough, you’ll find another girl and

brush her hair and teach her the correct way to order a croissant. Our paths will diverge, and I will once again be a moon absent of a planet, rejoining a solar system I’m not sure I was ever quite part of. 

Too soon, dawn cracks the sky. Slivers of golden light part the dark and the end is all too near. I hear your breath hitch every so slightly in your chest, but you’ll be alright. Silently, we trade numbers, the city coming awake around us as I type in my digits with shaky hands. I’ll never use yours, I know. I don’t have international calling, but it’s more than that. You are a chord in my symphony, a beautiful resonant moment that not a soul will forget, but you are not the whole song. This is where we leave each other a piece of our hearts, framed together and hung in a corner of the Louvre that no one will ever see. But it is here. That much I know and will never forget. 

In a few hours, you will drop me off at the airport and kiss me goodbye. I will clutch my suitcase and watch you drive away, carrying my newfound treasures home. My parents will inform me of their concern and my friends will beg for stories. Perhaps yours will do the same. But for a moment, before the sun woke from her slumber and the city joined in her anarchy, Paris was ours for the taking.