His jaw set. I leaked more tears. He hesitated, but then sat me down on a stone bench under a scanty-leaved poplar tree and gave the people eyeing my public tears a cool look. He gave me an even cooler one.

“The only reason you didn’t judge me is because you didn’t notice me!” I protested. “If I hadn’t left you that invitation, you never would have realized I existed.”

“What are you talking about? You came there nearly every day. Of course I knew who you were.”

I did not go there every day. I might have gone there several times a week, but it was not every day. “Then why didn’t you ask me out?!”

“I did ask you out.”

“Before I left you an invitation,” I said between my teeth. “You didn’t even flirt with me.”

He frowned, completely baffled by me. “You were a client. I didn’t want to harass you. I’m not such a jerk as to hit on you when all you wanted to do was enjoy a nice meal.”

What a feeble excuse. The French didn’t object to sexual harassment. I knew because Valérie was always rolling her eyes over lawsuits that got reported in the “make fun of the U.S.” column in Le Courrier. Plus, someone as cute as he was could not possibly believe any woman would object to him flirting with her. “I bet you don’t even remember the first time I came there,” I challenged.

“Sure I do. You were with a part Asian girl.”

My jaw dropped. Tory was actually Mexican American, but she did have an Asian look to her, especially if you weren’t used to seeing as many Hispanics as Asians. “Do you remember what I was wearing?”

He shrugged. “Something black. You always wear black.”

I thought about mentioning that I would wear blue if people would let me, but that might be too risky at this stage in our relationship. “I have black leather pants.” Listen, when a woman owns black leather pants, she has to work it into the conversation any way she can.

He smiled a little. “Well, that would be nice to see.” He stopped smiling abruptly. “Forget it. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you were leaving in three weeks.” He gazed at my face a long moment and then shook his head. “Shit.” He turned, pressing his hands against the hard angle of the bench, and stared out over the Seine. “Putain de merde.”

I sniffled. An awkwardly tall man, dreadlocks twisted into a turban around his head, clothes faded and baggy, came up and said something to me I couldn’t understand. He seemed to be asking me if I wanted du shit. What? Sébastien answered quietly, shaking his head.

“Are you sure?” The man glanced at me.

“Yes, give us some room.”

The man shrugged and slouched on.

“What?” I demanded.