Paris is slightly less of a whore than I remember. I spend most of my days half-dressed in bed with the Don't disturb sign hanging on the door knob 24/7, just in case. In the evenings I eat oysters and drink Chianti wines at La Coupole until the staff politely asks me to leave, hiding in plain sight from Henry. Every night I wait anxiously for him to show up from nowhere (because fear is, if nothing else, a feeling I still treasure), but he never does.
I sometimes fantasize about going to his apartment, to knock on his door and be invited in. He puts his hands around my neck and squeezes so hard I almost can't breathe. I pretend that it hurts me and he throws me down on his bed, rips the clothes off my body and fucks me without saying a single word. Afterwards we share a cigarette in the dim light from his kitchen lamp and he tells me that he loves the way I wear my hair now.
I was never the girl that dreamt about fairytale castles and pink princess dresses, in case you were wondering. The stories I wrote in school made my teachers call mother to emergency meetings more than once. She acted upset but on the way home always bought me candy and told me I was on my way to something truly great and beautiful.