“Nearly three.”
I bolted up, whipping my blankets off and propping my legs over the side of the cot. “What? Why is it so dark?” I focused through the darkness, seeing everyone else in their beds. The British guy was, in fact, snoring. “Why is everyone still sleeping?” I asked, concentrating on Mark again. His azure eyes appear almost crystalline in the dark. “Wait. You mean three A.M.? Why are you waking me up?”
I grumpily slumped back into my cot, throwing the blankets back over my legs. To his credit, he was still smiling. I gave him my meanest look, but he covered his mouth to muffle his laughter and it made me smile too.
“It’s simple, Zandra,” he said. I still loved the way he said my name. “If we want to go to the Louvre while nobody is there, we have to go now.”
“It’s closed,” I muttered. “Like it’s been for the last two days.”
“I know,” he said. “I found out that they’d closed it because there had been a security issue, but Marina and Oliver met somebody who could get us in.”
Marina and Oliver were fellow residents at the hostel. I turned around to look at their beds. They were both empty.
“Just like that?” I asked, sitting up.
“There may have been an exchange of money, but it will be worth it,” he said. “If it’s not, you can ignore me for the rest of our lives, and I’ll die a lonely, sad life.”
I swung my legs over the cot again. He stood up and offered me his hand. I took it, feeling ridiculously like a princess in a fairytale, but I still loved it.
“Fair enough,” I said.
Usually, I changed in the bathroom, but time was a precious commodity at that moment, so I changed into day clothes in front of Mark. After a few seconds, he turned around to not look at me, but I’d felt his eyes taking me in. His admiration made me feel more beautiful, more powerful, and more daring than I’d ever felt. It added to the electric, bold feeling of the night.
We snuck out, meeting Marina and Oliver at the bench in front of the hostel. I only knew the two of them in passing, but they were just a year or two older than Mark and I and they had been dating for a couple of years. When I’d watch them nuzzling or Marina sitting on Oliver’s lap, I’d imagined that they were a representation of Mark’s and my future. Mark only mentioned that they both had names that evoked the imagery of food—marinara sauce and olives.
The walk to the Louvre was a long one, but none of us felt like we could be contained in a vehicle, so we kept a quick pace while laughing at the dumbest jokes and whooping out once in a while to announce our presence to the universe. It felt like the kind of friendship I’d missed out in school. I didn’t feel restricted by expectations or pretending to be somebody I wasn’t. We’d been blessed by Bacchus, the Roman god of revelry, wine, and all types of unrestrained pleasure.
Mark’s hand continuously found its way into mine. We were wrapped up in each other in a way I’d never experienced. It finally made sense to me why so many girls in my high school were desperate to be in love. It would have been worth decades of pursuit. This was better than happiness.
When we reached the Porte de Richelieu entrance to the Louvre, Oliver opened the doors for us. Marina and Oliver wanted to see the Egyptian artifacts and quickly disappeared down one of the hallways. Mark and I slowly traveled down each hall, taking our time to appreciate the art, the building’s architecture, and being alone together.
In the dark, the art took on a different quality. Everything felt less grand and more intimate. It felt that way between Mark and me, too.
“I can’t believe you managed to do this,” I said.
“It’s not something I’d normally do,” he said. “But I knew you wanted to see it and you could get me to do anything. You’re a terrible influence on me. Should I steal the Mona Lisa next? You could roll it up and store it in your bag.”
I whacked him in the arm. “Don’t even try. They have a better security system around that than any prison cell.”
“But if you wanted it…”
He let his words drift off as we stopped in front of Antonio Canova’sPsyche Revived by Cupid's Kisssculpture.I imagined that for Mark, the more interesting part is that the Cupid and Psyche sculptures were mostly naked, but I was more invested in the way Cupid and Psyche stared into each other’s eyes, filled with a deep love, and the way Cupid held Psyche’s head in a way that was tender, but not hesitant.
“They have quite the love story,” I said, clasping my hands in front of me to resist the urge to touch it. “Cupid’s mother, Venus, ordered Cupid to kill Psyche. But when Cupid found Psyche, prepared to kill her, he fell in love with her instead. After some consulting with an oracle, Psyche believes she’s going to marry a hideous monster. It’s Cupid, but he doesn’t allow her to see his face. But one night, after they’ve been together, Psyche betrays Cupid by looking at his face. He’s injured from spilled hot oil and he flies away from her. Psyche searches for him and, in the process, she is forced to go through trials for Venus, including going to the underworld. After Cupid recovers from his wound, he gets Jupiter to give his blessing for his union with Psyche and he gets Mercury to gather all of the gods, where his mother is warned to stop harassing Psyche. Mercury also gives Cupid ambrosia, so Psyche can become immortal. They get married and have a child named Voluptas, the goddess of pleasure.”
Heat rushed into my cheeks. I was glad he couldn’t see my face.
“I’m sorry,” I said hurriedly. “I didn’t mean to go on and on about the story. After seeing this sculpture, I had to know the whole story behind it and it just sounded like a beautiful relationship. It’s almost realistic in the way that they both make mistakes and they’re willing to fight for each other.”
“You don’t need to apologize at all,” he said. “I loved hearing the story. I always love hearing you be passionate about anything. I almost fell asleep tonight, thinking about how you were so thrilled about the idea of eating cookies shaped like French bulldogs.”
I laughed. “You have to admit, those cookies were the best thing you’d ever seen.”
“Almost,” he said. I turned my head to ask him about what he was talking about, but his hand rose to my cheek and his azure eyes sparked a river of joy that started in my cheeks and cascaded to the tip of my toes. A sensation like a rubber band pulled taut peaked between my legs.
And he kissed me.
I’d only been kissed once before—when my brother’s friend had kissed me, then pretended I was a stalker when I saw him again. But this kiss was vastly different. Mark’s mouth brushed against mine before his hand was on the back of my head and he was kissing me harder. He kissed me with an intensity that rivaled anger. It must have possessed me because I kissed him back the same way, somehow knowing exactly how to respond to his passion.
