Paris, the city of love. The Eiffel Tower dominated the cobalt sky. Bernadette stood, her breathing steady. She turned her lowered eyes towards the Seine, imagining all the “locks of love” attached to the bridge. Each couple, deeply in love, would write their names upon the lock, place it on the metal posts and then toss the key into the river. Their love would be guaranteed to last forever. Tomorrow she would grab her camera and explore the “Rues de Paris.” Flowers would cascade from the florists, a riot of color and fragrances. She would feel alive again, as she had on her first trip to Paris, a student embracing all that life had to offer.

That was tomorrow, not tonight. She stood, her dress brushing against the balcony’s railing. The night air was soft, spring having arrived, awakening the city from its winter’s sleep. Henri’s hand resting upon her right shoulder, resting his body against her back. While not gripping her shoulder, the pressure bore down, a hint of possessiveness. He took delight in showing her, not only Paris, but in commanding her actions. Bernadette thought of shrugging, displacing Henri’s fingers. That would not do. She knew the role which she played.

She hated this continuous game, hated what she had become. To the outside world, she was admired for her classic beauty and social accomplishments. The two were linked, beauty as the means to attainment. She was no fool, at least not now, at the cost. Maybe at first, when she had embarked upon her life’s plan, she had been innocent, but time had become complicity.

Bernadette loved Paris, inwardly saying goodbye to the city so dear to her. She would take one last lingering stroll in the morning, savoring the whiffs of fresh-baked bread, escaping through the open doorways. She would end this charade. There would be that final, excruciating price which she must pay but already would also pay it.

(Writing exercise from the Crealdé School of Art, writing workshop “Inspired Words,” by Elaine Person, February 24, 2018.)