A Parisian love story She seems happy but deep inside she’s expecting more of life… and love. She is full of dreams, she has wild fantasies and desires. She doesn’t want to let routine get hold of her life and she doesn’t want to become the shadow of herself she’s slowly becoming. She wants to escape her town, meet new people, travel, explore a little more… She wants unpredictable kisses. She wants to breathe the wild air again. Trapped by routine and tempted by passion, she wants to break free of these safe arms that have been holding her for too long. The many nights alone pushed her into reading passionate love stories and watch romantic movies. She envied the heroines of the stories. So much that she became the heroine of her own story. She would soon see what was meant, in life, by the words “bliss,” “passion,” and “rapture” – words that had seemed so beautiful to her in those books and movies. She would be seduced by a mystery man in the enchanting streets of Paris and they would French kiss all night. She would be looked at like she was magic. They would undress each other with their eyes only. His hands would trace the veins in her neck and find their way across her chest. They would love with a love that’s more than love. And they would wake up… the morning sun shining through. All innocence lost. They would smell like love and taste like sin… And she would feel alive. All of a sudden she was the amoureuse of all the novels, the heroine of all the movies, the vague “she” of all the poetry books. “How oft the warmth of the sun above Makes a pretty young girl dream of love.”