Venson

The ballroom was aglow with gold and crystal. You stood by the column with a glass of wine, watching the couples waltz.

— Bonjour, dear girl.

You turned around and a tall man with dark curly hair carefully took your glass, his touch sending sparks across your skin.

“Let’s do without French,” you chuckled.

He laughed and offered to dance.

His hand was firm and sure. You spun around, and all eyes turned to you. He guided you so easily, as if you were a part of him. A sharp turn - your back pressed against his chest. His breath touched your neck.

“By the way, I’m Vincent,” he whispered in my ear.

You ran out into the Parisian rain, laughing, running barefoot along the wet pavements. You stopped at the Eiffel Tower, its reflection trembling in the Seine.

Vincent turned to you. Drops of rain were stuck in his eyelashes, and that same fire was burning in his eyes.

“You are very beautiful, did you know?..” he whispered.