Page 57 of Modern Romance September 2025 5-8
He looks like the nice man my mom thinks I should have ended up with.
I feel nothing. I don’t want to. I’m still married to Dragos, after all. He’s ruined me for men.
There’s a woman who sits at the window every day, and she smiles at me in a particular way, and I’m not interested in her either. Logically, I entertain the thought that if he’s ruined me for men perhaps I should go on a date with a woman. But I can’t even muster up interest for that based on novelty.
The realization I have in that moment is that he’s going to have to become my ex-husband at some point, officially.
He is going to have to find me. He’s going to have to send papers.
I don’t want any of his money.
I smile politely at the woman, and at the man. I sit down with my pastry and my coffee. The man is the one who approaches me, and this doesn’t surprise me, because men.
“Hi.”
I’m surprised that he speaks English, and even more surprised to discover he’s American.
“Hi,” I say.
“I’m Luke. I’ve noticed you here every day. And I’ve heard you talking to the cashier so I knew that you were American.”
“Yes. I am. Is my French that bad?”
He laughed. “Better than mine.”
“Where you from?”
“California.”
“Idaho. So… West Coast also, kind of.”
He nods. I don’t invite him to sit down.
“I’ll probably see you here tomorrow.”
“Yes,” I say. “You will.”
It wasn’t bad talking to him. I get up and I bus my own table, then I walk out onto the street. A dark shape catches my eye, and I am immobilized. I look over quickly, but I don’t see anything. I don’t see anyone.
I swallow hard. It’s not Dragos. He would never come for me himself. He would send one of his people anyway. It would never be him.
I walk quickly back into the apartment. I spend the rest of the day painting.
When I sleep, it’s fitful. And filled with flashes of memory. Filled with Dragos.
I can see him clearly in my mind standing on a street corner in Paris. I wake up in a cold sweat, and I paint until the sun comes up. Then I go downstairs for my breakfast. Luke is there.
“Can I join you?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say definitively. He sits down, and I push my mug back and forth. “I have to warn you,” I say. “I’m married. I mean, I fully intend on divorcing him, but I just left.”
He nods. “That’s okay. I don’t really know anyone here. So… If I could just know you, that would be nice.”
It’s the nicest thing someone could’ve said to me. I find out that he’s twenty-five and has taken an internship here, and feels homesick. I tell him that I’m an artist, and he isn’t dismissive at all. We laugh about the fact that I’m a cliché. An American in Paris working on my paintings.
He doesn’t ask me about Dragos. I’m grateful for that, because it means that I can pretend. I can think about other things.
“Would you like to go out tonight? Just… For company. I don’t expect anything.”
