Category:

I stay until my fingers are pruned, the bubbles are gone, and the water is cold. When I come out, I feel like a new person. Refreshed, reset. I may not have thought through this whole Paris affair, but now that I'm here, I might as well enjoy it. The thick robe I wrap myself in feels like a man's embrace. Cozy and soft. Though I don't think Olivier has ever hugged me like that. Shaking the thought away, I open the door wide to get rid of the fog so I can better read my phone screen, but I'm distracted by the fact that the bed is empty, the sheets still tucked in.

He's gone.

The comments have trickled in, fast and furious, during my bath. I got the latest iPhone a couple of weeks ago, and I didn't want to take the risk of it falling in the water. I'm still not used to being able to spend over a thousand dollars like it's a drop in the ocean.

Sooooo pretty

Oh em gee!

I'd kill to be you rn

It feels like everyone I know—well, almost everyone—is on their devices, ready to clock how wonderful my life is. How happy I am. How in love.

Where the fuck is my husband?

I head over to the door to peek out into the hallway, half expecting him to be out there. The man likes his privacy. Or maybe he just likes being alone; I don't know which it is. I wonder if I should call or text him. But I'm not that kind of wife. We're not that kind of couple.

He'll be back soon enough. True fact: He can't live without me.

I take more pictures of the room, the view, the bathwater before I let it out, and of me in the new dress, a mini black lace thing I bought for this trip. I heard French girls wear a lot of black; it's supposed to be chic. Olivier told me I should wait to go shopping in the city, but waiting is not something I'm good at. Anyway, the dress does look quite stylish, especially against the red Chanel lipstick I grabbed from duty-free at the airport, along with a new pair of sunglasses. I've never been able to treat myself like this before.

I take more pictures of the room, the view, the bathwater before I let it out, and of me in the new dress, a mini black lace thing I bought for this trip. I heard French girls wear a lot of black; it's supposed to be chic. Olivier told me I should wait to go shopping in the city, but waiting is not something I'm good at. Anyway, the dress does look quite stylish, especially against the red Chanel lipstick I grabbed from duty-free at the airport, along with a new pair of sunglasses. I've never been able to treat myself like this before. Look at me. Turns out I am marriage material after all.

Every now and then I listen for any sounds, but there is no sign of my husband. My French husband. My disappearing act of a husband. It's not the first time he has done this, but the fact that it bothers me is a new feeling. This is his city, his country, and I don't even speak the language.

Now I'm starving. I pick up the room phone to dial the restaurant, browsing over the leather-bound menu as the ringtone beeps in my ear. No answer. I'm about to try again when a buzzing sound comes from the door, the lock unlatching. I don't want Olivier to think I was looking for him, so I put the phone down.

"Hey," he says, taking me in: dressed, made up, and ready to go. He changed, too. He's wearing a pair of dark-blue jeans and a navy polo shirt. That's when I notice that his suitcase is open. He looks freshly shaven and his hair is wet-he's clearly showered. Where? How?

"Had a nice walk?" I ask casually.

He nods, giving me nothing. I'm not going to ask where he went. Olivier has that detached air about him...he exudes confidence. I was so impressed when I met him. This sophisticated French guy was interested in me. He asked all these questions. He cared. He was prim and proper, and yet he didn't look down on me. Quite the opposite, actually. I notice the shopping bag he's carrying, in a shade of mint green, with elaborate, all-caps lettering.

"Macaroons," he says, with an amused grin at the greedy look on my face, "from Laduree. Do you know it?"

Is there a hint of arrogance in his tone, or am I just imagining it? The first time I heard his accent, I thought it was so perfect. Exactly what I needed. But now...

Well, now we're here and I've never tried real French macaroons. So.

"I thought you'd like them," Olivier says, sitting on the bed next to me. I can't help but smile. The rectangular box inside the bag is mint green as well, and I open it to a festival of colors: round little pastries in shades of pink, blue, yellow, and brown. No wonder you see them all over Instagram. They're so photogenic.

Ignoring my rumbling stomach, I grab the bottle of champagne, the melted ice dripping on my dress. I lay it on the bed next to the macaroons, then wipe my hands on the sheets. Olivier watches as I snap a few pictures.

First Paris treat! Thank you, hubby! Don't mind if I do.