Ansel left me breakfast. There’s coffee and a wrapped croissant waiting on the counter, and along with the lace cap that went with my maid costume, a new list of scribbled phrases rests beneath my plate.

What time is it? Quelle heure est-il?

What time do you close? A quelle heure fermez-vous?

Take your clothes off, please. Déshabille-toi, s’il te plaÎt.

Fuck me. Harder. Baise-moi. Plus fort.

I need the large dildo, same size as my husband. Je voudrais le gros gode, celui qui se rapproche le plus de mon mari.

That was the best orgasm of my life. C’était le meilleur orgasme de ma vie.

I’m going to come in your mouth, you beautiful girl. Je vais jouir dans ta bouche, beauté.

I’m still smiling as I step into the bathroom and shower, memories of last night running on a reel inside my head. The water pressure in Ansel’s apartment is terrible and the water is barely lukewarm. I’m reminded once again that I’m not back in San Diego, where the only person I needed to battle for hot water this late in the morning was my mom after her morning yoga class. There are seven floors of people to take into account here, and I make a mental note to get up earlier tomorrow, and sacrifice an extra hour of sleep for a hot shower. But that’s not the only thing I’d miss out on. Those few, unguarded moments in the morning when Ansel thinks I’m still sleeping might just be worth a cold shower. Lots of them.

GRUESIMONE IS OUTSIDE having a cigarette when I walk past the patisserie toward the métro. “Today has already been a fucking nightmare,” she says, blowing a plume of smoke out the side of her mouth. “We sold out of the scones everyone loves and I spilled a fucking coffee on myself. FML.”

I’m not sure why I sit with her for the duration of her break, listening to her vent about the trials of being a poor twenty-something in Paris, how her boyfriend can never seem to shut the coffee off before he leaves, or how she’d give up smoking but it’s cigarettes or customer homicide—their choice. She isn’t very nice, to anyone, really. Maybe it’s that she’s American, and it’s comforting to have regular conversations with someone who isn’t Ansel in a language I actually understand. Or maybe I really am that starved for outside human contact. Which is . . . really depressing.

When she’s finished her last cigarette and my coffee has long grown cold, I tell her goodbye and head toward the métro, and then explore as much of Le Marais as I can in a morning.

Here there are some of the oldest buildings in the city, and it’s become a popular neighborhood for art galleries, tiny cafés, and unique, pricy boutiques. What I love most about the neighborhood are the narrow winding streets, and the way tiny courtyards pop up out of nowhere, begging to be explored, or simply for me to sit and fly through a novel, getting lost in someone else’s story.

Just when my stomach is rumbling and I’m ready for lunch, my phone vibrates in my bag. I’m still surprised by the delicious lurch in my chest when I see Ansel’s name and face—the dorky selfie of him with pink cheeks and wild grin—flash across my screen.

Is it fondness I feel? Sweet Jesus, I’m definitely fond, and whenever he’s close I basically want to molest him. It isn’t just that he’s gorgeous, and charming, it’s that he’s kind and thoughtful, and that it would never occur to him to be sharp or judgmental. There’s an inherent ease to him that’s disarming, and I have no doubt he leaves a trail of unintentionally broken hearts—male and female—wherever he goes.

I’m almost positive the old woman who runs the store around the corner from our apartment is a little in love with him. In truth, I’m pretty sure almost everyone Ansel knows is a little in love with him. And who could blame her really? I watched her one evening tell him something in rapid-fire French and then pause, pressing her wrinkled hands to her face like she just told the cute boy about her crush. Later, as we’d walked down the sidewalk eating our gelato, he’d explained that she told him how much he looks like the boy she fell in love with at university, and how she thought about him for a moment every morning when he stopped by for coffee.

“She thanked me for making her feel like a schoolgirl again,” he’d said a little reluctantly and then turned to me with a flirty little smile. “And was glad to see me married to such a pretty girl.”

“So basically you make the old ladies a little frisky.”

“I really only care about this lady.” He’d kissed my cheek. “And I don’t want to make you frisky. I want you naked and begging to come all over my mouth.”

I’ve never known someone who is such a mixture of brazen sexuality and feigned innocence before. So it’s with a combination of excitement and fear that I read his message now, while traversing the busy sidewalk.

Last night was fun, it reads.

I chew my lip as I contemplate my response. The fact that he understood what I was doing, that he played along and even suggested we do it again, well . . .

I take a deep breath. So fun, I reply.

Was it nice to get outside your head a little?

The sun is high overhead and it’s got to be close to eighty-five degrees outside, but with one sentence he’s managed to make goose bumps erupt along my arms and legs, my nipples tighten. Somehow talking about it like this, acknowledging what we did, feels as dirty as seeing that tiny costume hanging in the closet this morning, beside the clothes he wears to work every day.

It was, I type, and if a text could come across breathy, that is exactly how this would sound.

There’s a long pause before he begins typing again and I wonder if it’s possible he’s wound as tight as I am right now. Think you’d want to do it again?

I don’t even have to think about it. Yes.

His answer comes slowly; it feels like he’s typing for an eternity. Go to the Madeleine station, line 14 to Chatelet. Walk to 19 Rue Beaubourg-Centre Georges Pompidou (the large museum, you can’t miss it). Take the escalators to the top floor. Wait at the bar at Georges Restaurant 19h00 (7:00 pm). Best view around.

I’m close enough to walk there, and a giddy thrill inches its way up my spine and slips like a warm bath along my skin. My limbs suddenly feel heavy, my body aches, and I have to step into an alcove in front of a small bookstore to pull myself together. I imagine this is what a sprinter feels like in those last moments before the starter pistol cracks through the air.

I have no idea what Ansel is planning, but I’m ready to find out.

THE CENTRE POMPIDOU is easy to find. Thanks to Google, I know it’s centered on Paris’s Right Bank, and sits in an area known as the Beaubourg neighborhood. After my days of exploring, I have a pretty good sense of where I am. But although I saw a photo of the museum online, I’m in no way prepared for the monstrous, skeletal curiosity that seems to rise up from the city around it.