My meltdown in Paris

let her run, run, run

“I swear, if you cry here, I will never talk to you again,” I whispered to my own self as I ordered a steamy Vanilla Latte and picked out the world’s most buttery croissant from a small French cafe.

“And it’s not like a lot of people are talking to you anyway” I added bitterly.
As the French man whose features looked as if they had been gorgeously calligraphed on his face stared back unblinkingly at me and continued to prepare my drink, I held in my breath and used all my powers to keep those tears from daring to drop off my eyelashes.

He made a quick comment about me to his co-worker in a language that sounded so beautiful to my ears that even its most derogatory words would sound flowery. Both continued staring as I defiantly picked up my tray and tried to force my way out…

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