WILLOWBeing a tourist in Paris is truly a magical experience. The cobbled streets. The quaint restaurants. The art. Aiden and I check out the louvre. It’s our first stop. Next, we take a ride across the Seine river. He buys me flowers from a vendor, who’s store spills nearly onto the sidewalk. She’s a middle aged woman that speaks only in French. I’m bad at French but Aiden happens to speak the language so well. He converses with the woman. He even makes her laugh. “How are you so good at French?” I ask, as we walk down the street, our arms wrapped each other. I’m holding my bouquet in my other hand, taking care not to upset the arrangement. “I remember summer after I turned fifteen. I tried taking French lessons online but didn’t get far.”“Why not?” Aiden asks, genuinely curious. “Because I had to work,” I snort. “At the time, there was this extra program at school, that I was trying to get into. It cost money and I needed to save up for it.”“Ah. I see. A hustler at fifteen. I
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