Meet Me in Paris

When I was seventeen, I fell in love with my girlfriend’s mother. Though much older, she fell for me, too. Our bodies never touched, but our hearts longed to.

          My girlfriend broke up with me. As I left her home for the last time, her mother took me aside and whispered in my ear, “Café Le Flore, Paris, ten years from today. Be there.” She had never been to Paris, but had seen that café in a romantic movie. I had never been to Paris either, but I swore to myself that I would be there, no matter what.
          I ached for the day we would meet again. Ten years passed slowly. On the appointed day, I found her seated at a tiny table at the Café Le Flore, her long legs crossed, with two glasses of red wine already poured.
          I said, “You’re really here. I can’t believe my eyes.”
          She said, “I never doubted. We’re meant to be together.”
          We drank two bottles of wine, then retired to Le Hotel Meurice. After two hours of passion, she rose from our bed, dressed quickly, and headed for the door.
          I said, “Don’t go. Stay. We’ve just begun.”
          She said, “I must go. I have appointments. My daughter had many boyfriends.”