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“That’s sentimental,” he said.
“No,” she replied. “It’s precise. We give flowers because words fail.”
He took her hands. They smelled of rosemary and earth.
He was American. She could tell before he opened his mouth—the way he held his shoulders too high, as if braced for a blow, and how he stared at the Eiffel Tower’s blinking lights each night as if it might vanish. His name was Julian, a travel writer who had stopped believing in travel, or writing, or much else. His last piece had been a eulogy for his mother, published under a pseudonym. Now he was on assignment: “The City of Love in Winter. Rediscover Romance.”
“It’s Paris,” she said, finally meeting his eyes. “We invented the melancholy glance. Sit. I’ll make tea.”
“That’s sentimental,” he said.
“No,” she replied. “It’s precise. We give flowers because words fail.”
He took her hands. They smelled of rosemary and earth.
He was American. She could tell before he opened his mouth—the way he held his shoulders too high, as if braced for a blow, and how he stared at the Eiffel Tower’s blinking lights each night as if it might vanish. His name was Julian, a travel writer who had stopped believing in travel, or writing, or much else. His last piece had been a eulogy for his mother, published under a pseudonym. Now he was on assignment: “The City of Love in Winter. Rediscover Romance.”
“It’s Paris,” she said, finally meeting his eyes. “We invented the melancholy glance. Sit. I’ll make tea.”