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The rib of the umbrella clicked into place, and suddenly the world was just the size of two people standing too close.
The rain was doing its best to turn the Rue de Rivoli into a creek, but all I could focus on was how her silk dress clung to her hip.
I watched that single drop of rainwater travel down the bridge of your nose, hanging there like a threat before it finally fell.
Marc was laughing, a loud, expansive sound that took up all the oxygen in the small kitchen, while Sylvie’s hand stayed exactly where I’d left it.
The rain was hitting the roof like a bag of brass falling on concrete, and there was Chloe, looking entirely too steady for a woman who’d just downed three double-espressos.
He looked at me with the kind of focused intensity I usually reserved for fact-checking a deputy mayor’s expense report.
I wanted to take that look of hers and press it between the pages of a heavy book until it turned into a stain.
The humidity has turned his hair into a riot of damp curls, and I have never wanted to fix a man’s alignment more.
The condensation on the window mirrored the sweat cooling on her shoulder, a map of everywhere we hadn't meant to go.
I watched the rain smear the Louvre into a grey thumbprint, wondering if you still kept that silver flask tucked in your tuxedo's inner pocket.
The rain in Paris doesn't fall; it colonizes the glass, turning the Tuileries into a blurred green smear that looks like a bad recon photo.