Antique bookstores drew us in, and we spent hours exclaiming over our finds. I ran my fingers over the smooth leather covers and breathed the scent of ancient paper. As usual, I favored the most loved and abused of the books, while Marie found the gilt edges of the classics. Her sharp mind craved the meat of the master poets, while I was content to be soothed by the romantics. She knew a bookstore that sported an extensive English section. The morning wafted by in a haze of dust.
Lunchtime found us at an outdoor cafe, books propped open between us, each of us reading passages of poetry to the other. I sipped my mocha while she drank her cappuccino. Nearby, a fountain bubbled its music. It was as if we were in college again, minus the hunger. Marie was at home in Paris, and I relaxed. Give
