I wake up at 12:55, mostly because my confused body, convinced that an hour is sufficient rest, won’t let me sleep anymore.

The shower is nice; it’s one of those waterfall sorts that cascades heat over your head. It’s soothing and does the trick, washing away hours of emotional self-abuse for my mistake on the plane. I still haven’t replied to Jen, mostly because I figure she’ll hate me as much as I hate myself for my stupidity. But when I’m out of the shower, I throw on the fluffy white robe that’s hanging on the back of the bathroom door, grab my phone and force myself into a state of bravery.

“Mistake. Stupid, impulsive move. Turns out the guy is a prick with a side order of asshole. I blame you though—you told me to be impulsive.”

Her reply comes moments later.

“You slept with an asshole? I didn’t tell you to do that.”

“You wanted me to sleep with the sexy guy from the bar.”

“YOU SLEPT WITH MR. SEXY?”

“Well, to be fair, there was no sleep. Only fucking.”

“Holy shit. I don’t know how you managed that, but my hat’s off to you, my friend.”

“Anyhow, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay. I won’t pressure you.”

“At least he was good looking.”

“I thought you didn’t want to talk about it?”

“He smelled like chocolate. And he tasted even better.”

“You’re torturing yourself.”

“He had a really, really big dick. Like impossibly huge.”

“I hate you. Tell me more.”

“Maybe later. Going for a drink with the woman who set me up with this pad.”

I snap a photo of my perfect living room and send it.

“Hoping she doesn’t hook me up with any more men,” I add.

“Tell her I hate her too, for not inviting me.”

“Will do. I’ll let you know when I’m back, though if you’re smart you’ll have gone back to sleep by then. xox.”

When I’ve thrown on one of my most stylish outfits, a yellow and white polka dot halter neck dress and some cute sandals, I check my face in the mirror. A little mascara and a dab of red lipstick, and I’m good to go. Except I have no idea where the hell I’m going.

I look up the restaurant on the GPS. It seems that Katherine has kindly picked somewhere only a few blocks from the apartment, no doubt with the full knowledge that I’ll be wiped out by the time I get to her. Of course she has no idea how emotionally exhausted I am; I’m sure that most of the clients who rent apartments from her aren’t so foolhardy as I.

Well, at least something about the knowledge that I’ll be taking my first walk through Paris streets soothes my soul. The sun is shining, and everything—almost everything—seems perfect. After I’ve grabbed the keys I boot down the marble stairs to the front door and make my escape, staring at the map on my phone to memorize it. I refuse to look at the phone while I’m surrounded by the outdoors. I’m in Paris, damn it. I’m going to study every inch of it.

Stepping back into the street after a revitalizing nap, it turns out, is breathtaking. For a moment I’d all but forgotten where I was, but the incredible allure of the city hits me like a beautiful, cleansing wind as I look about. This place is beyond beautiful; it’s like walking through a portal into another century where every building is assembled with breathtaking care. Each façade has its own sort of character, each door is crafted to be its own independent entity. Some are wood; others are coated in iron grating that was probably hand crafted by some master metalsmith.

No two buildings are quite the same, but there’s a uniformity to the large grey slabs of stone that make up their foundations. To distinguish one residence from another, a series of beautiful classical details, from gargoyles to carvings of leaves to wrought iron accents, make for a picturesque view in every direction. A couple of hours ago I wanted to run away. But now I want nothing more than to stay here forever, basking in inspiration and potential.

I start walking, my pace quickening as I advance down the street along my memorized path. Left. Right. One block, then left and across the road, down a narrow cobbled lane lined with clothing shops, creperies and every other place you can imagine. Jewelry, watches, shoes all stare at me from immaculately arranged displays. I want them all. I’d give up New York to work in one of these tiny shops, to greet smiling people all day long, then to retreat to my pied à terre in the evenings. Perhaps I could take a lover…

Oh, wait. I already did that. It didn’t work out so great.

Before long, I come to another busy street. This one’s lined with souvenir shops that sell tote bags and fridge magnets adorned with pictures of the Eiffel Tower. Across the way, in the direction I’m headed, I spy the most beautiful church. It’s not a massive behemoth like Notre Dame, but it looks even older, somehow. Tucked between modern shops, its backside faces me. Gorgeous stone buttresses hold up its walls with care, and dark stained-glass windows tell me that I might one day need to go inside for a closer look. Centuries of weather have beaten down its stone to a sort of dark, uneven stain, and I’m already in love. Is every church in Paris this breathtaking?

I proceed across the street, staring up at the church’s walls in awe as I walk down the cobbled pathway to its right. A few seconds later, a voice pulls me out of my thoughts.

“Adriana!”

It’s a female voice, drawing my gaze ahead and to the right.

An elegant red-haired woman in a white linen blouse is sitting at a small, round table on a little patio just opposite the church, waving her hand gracefully at me. Of course that’s what Katherine looks like. Only a woman so well put together would run a single ladies’ travel agency.

She’s chosen the most idyllic setting imaginable for our little meeting, too. This is what I dreamed of; little Parisian patios, people-watching, ancient buildings. This is the life I want to live. Before I’ve even spoken to her, I know that I want to spend afternoons sitting around getting tipsy with Katherine, exchanging war stories about men and unfulfilled dreams.

I issue her a huge grin and make my way over to the table. She stands and grabs me in a warm hug, then kisses both my cheeks, à la parisienne, apparently. When she sees that the kisses have taken me by surprise, she lets out a shimmering laugh. Well, the verdict’s already in: Katherine is perfect.

“I recognized you from your profile pic on Facebook,” she tells me. Her accent is a mix of a bunch of things: English, French, and possibly even some kind of American influence thrown in for good measure. “Come, sit!” She gestures to the little twisted iron chair opposite her own. Its seat is woven, shiny wicker and I love it. There’s already a condensation-covered carafe of water on the table, as well as two glasses. “I thought we’d start light,” Katherine says, “in case you’re wiped out.”

“I am,” I reply, plopping myself down inelegantly, “but I’ll never turn down a glass of wine, if it’s an option.”

Immediately she throws up a hand and signals the waiter to come by. “Une bouteille de Saint Michel, s’il te plait,” she says in impeccable French. The man goes traipsing off immediately to accommodate her request. And what man wouldn’t? She’s gorgeous. Big blue eyes, full lips, a great body. She has it all going on. The sort of woman that other women hate, only I can’t imagine disliking her. She gives off the impression that she wouldn’t care a whit if I did, anyhow.

“How was the flight?” she asks.

“The flight?” I say, my mind grasping for an answer that doesn’t involve the word intercourse.

“Yes, how was your trip?”

“It was…interesting,” I say.

“Oh?” She raises her left eyebrow in mischief. “Interesting is…interesting.”

“I ended up in First Class, so that was nice.”

“Uh-huh,” she replies, narrowing her eyes knowingly. “Something tells me there’s more to this story.”

Maybe it’s because I’m dead-tired, but for some reason I spill the beans immediately. “I met someone. A man.”

Her lips arc into a sly smile. “I see,” she says. “And?”

“And then I unmet him. End of story.”

“Ah, but somewhere in the middle, magic occurred.”

“Magic,” I chuckle cynically. I’m finally getting to the point where I can almost laugh at the madness of it. “You could call it that. Or you could call it stupidity. A mistake.”

“There are no mistakes,” she says like a wise sage. “Only bad choices.”

The waiter displays a bottle of white wine in front of Katherine, pours a tiny bit into her glass then waits as she tastes it. “This wine, for example, is a good choice,” she says, nodding her head in approval as he pours us each a glass.

“Well, I made a bad choice then,” I tell her, wondering what sort of magic she’s working on me to get me to open up like this. “At first I resisted, but then…”

“But then you realized you were on your way to Paris and nothing mattered, so why not indulge in a little fantasy?”

“Precisely.”

“This city has that effect on people, even before they arrive. They call it the City of Light, but that doesn’t mean what everyone thinks it does.”

“No? I’ve always assumed it was something to do with the lights at night.”

“To some it does. Some say it has to do with the Age of Enlightenment. To me it means that Paris is the city where nothing matters. Anything goes here, Adriana. People come to stay briefly, they have affairs. They make mistakes, try new things, enjoy the pleasure of new sensations. Food, drink, sex. Then one day they return to their old lives. The light leaves them, and the heaviness returns. But for that little while, they were free. They lived without thought of repercussions.”

“But you live here, don’t you? You don’t have to return to an old life.”

“I do,” she says, issuing another sly smile. “I moved here a few years ago.” Her eyes hold a multitude of secrets, and I’m guessing that her life is far more interesting than mine will ever be. “My life is this place. Sometimes I leave and come back, and each time I do, I realize that this city is perfection. Paris is my version of heaven on earth, which is why I chose to stay.”

I turn to watch tourists strolling by. The narrow cobblestone road is car-free, so people can meander at their own pace. No one is hurried; every face looks content, if not happy. Everything here is about pleasure, whether it’s gastronomical or otherwise.

“I get it,” I say. “I think, anyhow.”

“So, who was he?”

“Who was who?” I ask. My eyes are fixed on an orange tabby cat who’s sitting on top of an awning across the way. Even he looks more relaxed than I normally feel, though I’m beginning to loosen up, like Paris is breathing some drug into my system.

“The mystery man on the plane.”

“He was no one,” I say, feeling like a shy teenager embarrassed about my first crush. “Well, that’s not true. He was filthy rich and very successful, so I guess he’s someone. He runs a business that manufactures robotic limbs.”

“Conlon Davies,” she says, sitting back in her chair, her eyebrows raised.

Shock darts through me like a torpedo. “You know him?”

Another knowing smile. “I know of him. Everyone here does. He’s quite famous, at least among business people. He’s a handsome man. And a solitary one, as I understand it. I can see the allure. His money and fame aside, did you like him?”

“I had sex with him, so I suppose I liked him well enough.”

Katherine’s eyes widen. “Ree-eally?” she says. Wow, I’ve just shocked the cool lady. This is fun.

“You’re looking at a new member of the mile-high club. You should consider adding that as a testimonial on your website. ‘The Single Ladies’ Travel Agency. Hooking couples up in airplanes since, well, sometime last night.’”

Katherine laughs. “I’ll consider it.”

“I suppose I’ve already failed to properly represent your agency,” I say.

"Oh? Why would you think that?”

“I’m supposed to be a single woman off on an adventure to celebrate my singleness. Before the adventure even began, I gave in to my desire for a man.”

“Adriana,” Katherine says, taking an elegant sip of her wine and leaning forward to confide, “silly girl, that is the adventure.”

“Well, that part is over, anyhow. I won’t be seeing him again.”

“Why not?”

I think of the high-heeled woman from the airport and shudder before taking a big swig of wine. “I don’t think he’s single.”

“Ah,” she says, though I get the impression that she knows something I don’t. “And if you found out that he was single, would you seek him out?”

“I’m not sure.”

“I think you should.”

“Why’s that?”

“I get the distinct impression that he did something a little special to your heart and mind.”

“Well, yeah, that was before he shattered the illusion that he was a good guy.”

“You think that woman was his…”

“I don’t know. Wife, lover, girlfriend? It doesn’t matter. It’s done now.”

Katherine lifts her hands in surrender. “All I’m saying is keep an open mind. In Paris, life happens everywhere. But if you’re not careful, it’ll happen without you. Don’t be a passive observer. Don’t make assumptions.”

“Point taken. I’ll try to enjoy life while I’m here. But I don’t need a man to enjoy it, single or otherwise.”

“No, of course you don’t. I don’t need a man, either. But I happen to enjoy them very much. They’re useful on cold nights.”

“So I’m confused—are you single, or…?”

“I’m open,” she tells me. “I live alone but I have visitors from time to time. One of them picked you up at the airport today.”

“Claude is your…” I lean in and speak in a hoarse whisper. “Lover?”

She nods. “One of them.”

God, I love this woman. She’s living a life I could only ever imagine.

“How the hell do you deal with having more than one? Don’t they find out?”

“Oh, I’m honest about my intentions. No man with whom I spend time thinks I’m about to settle down.”

“So how do you keep yourself from getting hooked? Aren’t you worried about falling in love with one of them?” Serious awe.

She shrugs and sips her wine. “I was hooked once, long ago. It didn’t sit well with me to put all my eggs in one basket, so I decided that I’d prefer to keep my options open. I get bored, Adriana. Not only that, but I like to be in control. I think all women should; it’s why I started the agency. I want women to take possession of their own destinies. Many of us are afraid to venture off alone, but we shouldn’t be. We should feel empowered. We should make our own decisions.”

“Such as whether or not to have sex with a virtual stranger on a plane,” I say.

“Yes, among other things. Tell me, do you regret it?”

I’m about to blurt out yes, but I think about it for a moment.

“Not really,” I say. “I mean, the thing is, it was amazing.”

“So embrace the memory of it. Embrace every opportunity that comes to you over the next few weeks. Don’t be afraid to live.” She’s right, of course. I’m afraid of exactly that.

“Okay, I don’t get it,” I tell her, “you can’t be a day over…what, thirty?”

“Thirty-five,” she says, “but close.”

“So how did you get to be so wise?”

“I’m not so wise, but I know what I want out of life,” she says, extending her arms like she’s embracing the city. “I’ve experienced the feeling of being tied down to a man. I’ve been confined within the shackles of a relationship and escaped just barely intact. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. Freedom is a beautiful thing for a woman.”

“Freedom, meaning singleness,” I say.

“Freedom, meaning anything you want. It can be in the form of a man who understands you. A woman who understands you. It can mean solitude, if that’s your preference. Freedom is smelling the air, striding through a Parisian street, and remembering who you are.”

I inhale deep, closing my eyes. I feel like I’m in some freaky outdoor yoga class, being taught how to open my mind. A yoga class with wine. Best ever.

“Open your eyes and take a good look around you, Adriana.”

I turn to observe the tourists again, but this time I see more than I did before. A blackbird perched on a sign. The church, its doors open, welcoming a hunched over old woman who’s probably had her share of lovers in her time. Parisians going about their business with an energy altogether different from that of the tourists. An open window two storeys up, where a shirtless man leans out with a smile on his face.

In response I let a little smile form on my own lips.

“Make sure you have an adventure each day that you’re here,” Katherine tells me. “Don’t let twenty-four hours go by when you don’t. Paris was created for pleasure. Don’t deny yourself.”

“I won’t. I promise.”

We chat for another half hour about everything from Paris’s sights to my failed relationship with Roger, which she tells me was basically a “starter marriage.”

“I wasn’t married,” I insist.

“You were, just not technically. Now you know what not to do. You understand yourself. You know your needs.”

“God, you’re so positive,” I tell her, and she laughs.

“Not always,” she says. “Believe me.”

Some time later, after she’s caught me yawning for the tenth time, Katherine grabs my hand across the table. “Go home to bed,” she says. “But listen—I have something in mind for tomorrow evening. Will you join me?”

“Something in mind?” I ask.

“Nothing nefarious,” she says. “I’ll text you the location and time. No men involved.”

“Sounds perfect.”