Loss of life in city lights

A red-headed bombshell fit for any magazine, and dropping jaws since the day she arrived, but not so much that men weren’t able to reset for long enough to ask who the new girl in town was. Word spreads fast when gossip need only travel walking distance, and news of another American didn’t include what a rarity such beauty was. Her name was Kara, from New York.

People seemed to gather more when she was around, and though she didn’t speak of lick of French, she didn’t need to to keep us from mopping up the mess whenever she passed by.

Her story past and present was an endless well of entertainment, and the more I fished, the deeper our conversations became. We had been authoring our own interpretations of the same plot line in individual love stories with life. We read the same books, shared the same thoughts, had lived nearly parallel lives with different characters in different settings, two book folds starting and ending the same narrative, but dog eared somewhere in the middle. The more time I spent with her the more real she became; the more real I became.

I dropped her at the airport in Toulouse after our final few days sitting by the river, drinking wine by the balcony, eating dinner in the Beffroi gardens, and wouldn’t see her again until we met for dinner in Union Square in New York. The change of pace didn’t change our interactions, but each of us seemed to have lost a little life to the city lights, relying less on a natural glow for illumination than on street lamps and LEDs to lead us home.

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