Early in the morning the sun is already warming the streets, and I’m the first at the patisserie, buying the warmest pain au raisin or viennoise au chocolat with tired and hungry eyes.
The parks are covered in people stripping down, sleeping, smoking, drinking and browning their skin. In the Bois de Boulogne I found a place in the grass, hiked up my long skirt, took my top off, and gave myself to my old lover: the sunshine.
But the sunshine wasn't the only old lover to come back to me. Last year's summer lover from the South was in Paris for the weekend. It all started at the art exhibit on orgasms, where his aunt had a series of paintings. The surroundings were suggestive and his bottomless brown eyes let me know there was still something there.
By the end of the night we were one again. But by the end of the weekend we were saying goodbye, knowing that other than a week in August, being together isn't a possibility.
Luckily there are many men in Paris. Friday night I sped along the Seine, perched on the back of a scooter, my skirt hiked up to my knees. A single tear made it’s way out of my eye, the wind in my face, my eyes trying to take in the city glowing in the setting sun. My chauffeur, a young Parisian man working in high fashion, took me to Café de Flore, where a waiter poured us long glasses of Kir, and the sun danced across the café tables.
When we split ways I joined another young woman for dinner. A bottle of wine and well-priced food left us happy, wandering the streets, taking the night bus, popping into bars, and eventually hailing a cab from place de Concorde.
The feast is everywhere right now, free for the taking. My Turkish friends up in Monrmartre have set up tables outside their restaurant, and the kids run around with water guns.
Cafes everywhere are full of people, woman dressed beautifully in flowing skirts and linen pants.
The Seine is littered with the young at night, scattered around with bottles of wine, grocery store dinners, strong cigarettes and stronger sex drives.
My feet are cut up from trotting around in flip flops and I can already see a sandal tan.
This is my time of year. Under the sunshine Paris is mine, and for many more hours, the sun lasting late in the night and daring me to stay out longer.
And as long as it lasts, I will, because you can't hide from beauty, and this apartment is turning into a toaster oven.