Free Hotelles by Emma Mars

shot a furtive glance over the panoramic postcard view as though he were looking for something.
    â€œWhat, is there a special time for toasting, now?” I teased.
    â€œNo, of course not . . . Let’s just say, I would prefer a more . . .”
    He was looking for the right word.
    â€œ . . . appropriate scene.”
    The locale seemed more than adequate to me. The boat had taken us to the Pont des Arts, an elegant pedestrian bridge, a favorite romantic rendezvous for Parisians. From the river, I could see thousands of locks that young couples had fastened to the parapet’s fence as a symbol of eternal love. The nod toward loyalty and posterity is the sort of thing of which those known as the Immortals over at the French Academy would surely approve.
    â€œNot everyone would agree with you!”
    As we floated under the metallic arch, we were greeted by an enthusiastic salvo. Yes, this was real. Some people were lucky enough to live life like you see it in the movies. And tonight, I was one of those people.
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    I wonder if one of the couples on the bridge has already made love here, in haste, hidden behind a tree trunk or lamppost?
    One of my girlfriends once told me that several years ago she’d participated in a kind of informal lovers’ competition on the Internet. Whoever did it in the most conspicuous or interesting place and got it on camera won. That’s how my friend managed to have sex with a fellow game player in one of the Centre Pompidou’s subterranean parking lots, in a bush at one end of the Champs-Élysées, and—their masterpiece—in the back of a double-decker bus filled with tourists who were so fascinated by the City of Light at dusk that they didn’t even notice the commotion behind them.
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    Anonymous handwritten note, 6/5/2009—Sophia?
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    SQUARE DU VERT-GALANT, A LONG green strip at the tip of the Île de la Cité, was already receding on our left. David was still distracted by something.
    â€œAnnabelle, I . . . ,” he stammered. His face, which was usually so radiant, was suddenly tarnished by an expression I did not recognize.
    Jeez, you really have to be completely caught up in something not to see or hear what anyone else would have noticed ages ago.
    â€œYes?”
    â€œYou know, people always say this kind of proposition doesn’t just fall from the sky . . .”
    â€œWhat are you talking about?”
    My face probably resembled one of those stone masks that decorate the Pont Neuf, the ones that look like dithering gargoyles who seem to be hesitating between bemusement, pleasure, joy, and fear. I could feel the pressure of the wind on my face as our vessel passed under the bridge. As I was waiting for David’s revelation, it felt as though we had suddenly picked up speed.
    What was he going to tell me? Worried, I felt a shiver run through my body. It did not go unnoticed. David immediately stood, his hot lips hungrily covering my neck with kisses.
    â€œYou’ll catch your death . . .”
    â€œYeah, I’d rather not,” I said without thinking, in my typical ironic tone.
    Just then, the arm of the Seine on which we’d been floating lost its charm. Here it was just a thin strip of nothing. Not a single tree was planted on its banks. To top it off, the shadow of 36 Quai des Orfèvres, the seat of the judicial police, darkened the suddenly choppy muddy waters. Would my harasser end up behind those walls?
    Probably not, if I didn’t say anything  . . .
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    THE VIEW IMPROVED AFTER NOTRE Dame’s two towers passed by on my left. And the mood seemed to lighten considerably. I heard a large insect buzzing overhead. I thought David would kill it reflexively, but instead he smiled. He looked relieved.
    â€œWhat the heck . . .”
    I looked up to see a round black engine the size of a breakfast platter, its four small blades whirring as it