I want so bad to spit out the words,I’m sorry. Are you alright? But they won’t budge, caught between by throat and mylips.
Say it, idiot,speak.
This moment, feels like a scene in a movie—everything surrounding us is a blur—the two of us the only thing the camera lens has in clearfocus.
She stares at me, crystal-blue eyes widened, lips slightly parted, as her hands briefly cling to my biceps. Then, she bends down, scoops up her phone, and dashes off like a desert roadrunner. The scarf draped around the strap of her purse drops onto thecarpet.
“Hey, your scarf,” I yell after her as I pick it up, but she disappears into thecrowd.
The soft scarf—the same color as her eyes—smells of apples andviolets.
Yeah, I’m not even ashamed I took awhiff.
Deciding to leave it at Lost and Found before I exit the airport, I shove it in my carry-on bag as I continue to make my way to baggageclaim.
A smile creeps onto my face as the realization of me being heresurfaces.
I mean seriously.I’m in freaking Paris,baby.
A city far away from heartbreaking southernbelles.
Far away from DixiefuckingLane.
