I’m lurching towards the exit that leads out to the taxi stand when I spot a strange person holding a sign that reads:

It takes me far too long to register that he’s there for me and that S.L.T.A. must stand for Single Ladies’ Travel Agency; I’ve almost walked right by him before I stop.

“Are you here for me?” I ask.

“Adriana,” the man says in an accent that can only be French, giving emphasis to the A at the end of my name and rolling the R like it’s a cherry stem that he’s twisting into a knot with his tongue. Looking into his eyes, I notice his face for the first time. He’s quite young; maybe twenty-three. His hair is light brown and a little curly, his eyes brown with flecks of green. There’s a permanent smile in his expression that’s infectious, though God knows I have no desire to smile right now.

“Yes, that’s me. Adriana,” I say, trying my best to imitate his pronunciation.

“Then I am here for you. My name is Claude.” The name comes out “Clode” and reminds me of chode, though he doesn’t deserve the comparison. He’s very cute, and were it not for the fact that I’ve just had my heart punched by one ridiculously attractive man, I might even be excited by the fact that I’ll be spending the next half hour with him.

“Nice to meet you, Ch—I mean Claude,” I muster.

“Katherine sent me to take you to your apartment,” he tells me, reaching for the green monster to wheel it out to his car. “She wanted to make sure you get there safe and sound. Sain et sauf, as we say in French.”

“I figured,” I say, entirely unsure that I want to get into another enclosed space with a man.

“My car is in the garage across the way,” he says, gesturing with his chin towards the large structure ahead and across several lanes of slow-moving airport traffic.

“Okay,” I say, too tired, or hurt, or something, to make conversation like a normal human.

He turns to look at me. “You took a red-eye flight, no?”

“Yes,” I reply.

I finally get why they call it that; it’s not because you end up tired. It’s because you meet a man and he crushes your soul, all in the space of a few hours. You end up crying and naturally, your eyes go red. Next time I’m booking a white-eye, damn it.

“I can tell, Adriana. You look tired. But don’t worry; soon you will be in your new home, able to take a nice hot bath,” he tells me.

“A hot bath won’t wash away the…” I begin, then stop. Sleep deprivation has made me stupid and killed my inner censor.

“Traveling can be tiring,” he says, and I’m thankful that he’s a rambler. I don’t want to talk about myself, about why I’m here. The truth is that I don’t even know anymore. I’ve already had more adventure than I was planning on, and I haven’t even seen the Eiffel Tower yet.

We get to the car and Claude loads my suitcase and carry-on in, then opens the back door for me. I climb in and close the door, leaning my forehead on the glass to cool off. Memories of Conlon flood my mind. His scent, his smile, even the taste of him.

Then come the memories of that woman who met him at the airport, and I want to be sick.

“You’re staying in a very nice part of the city,” Claude tells me as he pulls out of the lot after paying the parking fee. “The cinquième—uh, fifth arrondissement, near Notre Dame. Katherine set you up well with a lovely apartment.”

“Do you know her well?” I ask. I’d sooner talk about the woman in charge of the travel business than my own stupid self.

“Yes, very well. She’s a lovely lady,” he says, his tone more admiring than that of a casual acquaintance, and I wonder if perhaps Katherine has a story to tell. “She said to tell you she’d like to meet you later for a glass of wine, if you’re not too tired. She will send you a note.”

“Oh?” Something inside my chest whirs to life. The idea of a glass of wine in Paris puts a temporary bandaid over my broken ego. I remind myself again that this is just the beginning of the trip. Conlon was the hors d’oeuvre, but there’s no reason he needs to leave a bitter taste in my mouth.

Right. Forget him, I tell myself. Forget the bastard. There’s wine to drink. Sights to see.

Men to not fuck.

The drive lasts about half an hour, maybe more, and during the moments when I manage to banish the British bastard from my thoughts, I have to admit that it’s beautiful. Paris’s buildings are evolving from modern to ancient as we near the city’s core, its signature black slate rooftops romantic reminders of poor artists living in attics, dying of consumption, eating stale croissants for nourishment. It sounds like the best life I can imagine and I see why so many writers found their homes here. This city is a muse that envelops one’s mind and soul.

A vibration in my purse brings me out of my dream-state. Damn, I never filled Jen in on the details, and since my text they’ve changed significantly. I’ll get back to her later, when I’ve had a chance to lie down and get my brain working again; better to let her revel in the hope that I’m actually having a good time.

Claude has been largely quiet, thank God. Despite his charm, he’s not at all the lecherous man I was told that all Parisian men would be. He seems able to read my body language and to understand that I don’t really want to talk. If I did, it would only end up being a torrent of regretful statements about the man on the plane who misled me cruelly, anyhow. Who the hell wants to hear about that?

Stop thinking about him. He’s gone for good.

When Claude finally pulls the car up to the curb he hops out, helps me with my bags then hands me a set of keys that look like they came through a time machine from 1850. “The small one is the key to the building, second is for your flat,” he says, gesturing to a door that looks like it’ll just take me through a wall into nothing. But when I insert the key into the lock and open it, I walk into a bright, wide marble stairwell. Natural light is flooding in from above. Somehow this building is a hidden gem in the middle of Paris, and my heart does a funny jump again.

I’ve made it.

“Apartment Two is upstairs,” he tells me. “Do you want me to carry your luggage?”

“I’ll be fine with it,” I reply. “I could use the exercise.” Besides, if a good-looking young guy follows me up, I might end up asking him for rebound sex.

Claude nods as though he understands. “Bonne chance, chérie.”

“Merci,” I say, issuing a genuinely warm smile. I’ve grown to like this guy. There’s nothing manipulative or devious about him. He’s just a happy man.

Maybe next time I have sex, it should be with someone like him.