is this the partay?

She understood why Paris was famous for lovers, a city full of shadowed corners and exquisite light, even the texture of the buildings seductive, moving from rough to smooth, new to worn.

As Erica moved in her periphery, Laure felt the tug of the string between them, felt it spiral its tendrils towards the paintings too, so they were all entangled here. She knew she would remember this feeling for ever, and that it would be nothing like the feeling itself, only her memory of it.

Erica thought then of her own moments between: the hesitation before approaching Laure on the steps, before kissing her, before kneeling to press her face between her legs. She loved those hinge moments, before desire tipped into fulfilment, and felt that same satisfaction here: the moment after sunset, the moment before a new day, the waterlilies hovering in the act of unfurling. Even the colours were flickering, unfixed.

Logically, she should not have given Erica a gift, something she could attach meaning to. But then, she should not have invited her to stay, should not have kissed her, should not continue to kiss her every possible moment, to worship her body with her mouth and her fingers, to in turn let her pull from her moans of pleasure and whispered confidences... when it came to Erica there was a divide between her soul and her logic, and she refused to look at it squarely. Laure was in the grip of something she did not understand , and as with all things she did not understand she preferred to believe it below her notice.

Come on. You and les Ricains run culture, or think you do. You export all your books and films and import none of ours. You think yourself superior because we all speak your language, but it is because it's been forced into our mouths and you think yourself above learning ours.