The Best Of Times The Worst Of Times
Hello, Friend
I am writing to you from Paris on a stunning day that is way beyond anything I could have imagined. I thought I was prepared for this, but I was wrong.
I remembered how I endured months of a forced and hellish separation from my boyfriend, James Rampling, when I didn't know if he was alive or dead. How my mind was wiped of nearly every memory of our time together, until I doubted his entire existence. So now, as I stood in front of the Musee du louvre, scanning the elegantly dressed crowds for a sight of him, it felt completely unreal that he would appear.
And then--he called my name.
James darted through the speeding traffic circling the Place du Carrousel. When he finally reached me, and after we'd exchanged a few shy words, he lifted me off the ground and swept me into an amazing kiss that I'd rate a ten big blinking stars and another couple for sheer epicness.
I'm not the gushy type. I'm rational and logical, and not exactly prone to girly exaggeration, so when I say that kiss was like two halves of one heart meeting and locking together, you can believe me.
Or believe the cars driving past is with honking horns and people shouting out the windows, " Vive l'amour!"- Long live love!- and " Eh, il ya des hotels pour ca!" - There are hotels for that!
My long-lost boyfriend and I stood there under the noonday sun in the center of Paris, traffic whizzing by us, ruffling our hair and sending a hot breeze up my skirt. James's face was so open, I
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