By the time I wound up in Paris, Wanderer already had permission to stream the exhibits in quite a few museums and galleries. They really know their shit and made sure to not only include the major tourist attractions but also more intimate places for tours. The quiet ones, where it feels like just you and the art.

Those are the places I take Remi.

I’m sliding on the glasses when the request comes through.

SaintR wants to wander!

She picked the little art gallery across the street, and I smirk. She always chooses something nearby as if she’s afraid to be a bother. Which is why I waited to sign in until I got here.

Her profile might not give much away, but I have Remi Saint pegged as a college student in the Midwest. She’s bored and looking for a little adventure she can’t have. Adventure I can provide, thanks to the cash Wanderer pays per tour in their beta program.

The fall breeze kicks up around me. I breathe it in while crossing the street. It only takes until I walk through the door to the gallery for Wanderer to transfer funds onto my pay card, and I hand it to the guy behind the counter to swipe.

I lean on the counter and scan the large, open space. Empty. Perfect.

“Merci,” he says, and I throw him a smile.

Then I press the button, flush against the frame of the glasses, and they connect to my phone seamlessly. The video pops up before dropping to just the corner of the screen, letting me see if chat lights up. Not that it does with her.

Not often anyway. I’ll admit, though, I wasn’t being very subtle about the brunette last week. Some art just deserves more screen time.

Since that day, we’ve been back to the silent tours we both seem to prefer. It’s the main reason I catch as many with her as I can. She isn’t constantly messaging, demanding to see something she saw on the website or complaining if I spend too much time on one piece.

It takes a few paintings before I pause, drawn in by the artwork. This one’s different from the previous artists’ works, something more delicate and thoughtful behind the strokes of the ballerina in front of me. She has her arms over her head, toe shoes pointed perfectly. But it’s so much more.

It’s the details that make the piece mark a small bit of the soul. The worn spot on the left shoe, her tights threadbare at the knee.

“She’s crying,” I say out loud, not even thinking.