Evan awoke the next morning in Ophelia's townhouse. He stretched his hand out, his eyes still closed, to find no one. He sat up. Ophelia had gone. His clothes were now neatly laid out on a chair opposed to hanging from the fan the way they had the night before. He ran down the stairs into the kitchen, still naked. No. She had gone. He went back upstairs and into her room. He slipped back into his clothes and fixed his matted hair.

When he returned home, he saw his typewriter with a blank page still in it. He sat down and began typing. He still had Ophelia taking over his mind, but he could write. He could write about Ophelia. It was still better than nothing at all. As he typed, he missed her more. He thought of phoning, but then realized he had never gotten her number. How was he to see her again? He would visit the café again that night.

Ophelia had gone to her rehearsal. She felt bad knowing she had left him there lying bare, but she had a life of her own to attend to. She saw Eric, and Evan completely vanished from her mind. Ophelia could not help but stare, so she went over to him and talked.

"Bonjour monsieur," she greeted him.

"Bonjour mademoiselle. I trust you had a pleasant evening."

"Oui," she replied. "I had visited the Eiffel Tower."

"Ah, a pleasant view. I probably could not find the time if they had not added those elevators, oui?"

"Oui."

"The director is coming, you better take your place."

"Of course."

Now she had an awkward feeling. Had Eric been shallow all this time? Was he really there to show off? No. She knew him better than that. She climbed stairs. How was that deep? Now Evan entered the picture, and the guilt of not leaving a note consumed her. She phoned home. No answer. He had left already. Why hadn't she gotten his number? How was she to contact him again? She would visit the café that night.

Evan sat in his usual corner waiting for her. He sipped his coffee slowly waiting for her like he had done for a year. The past two evenings had come and go too quickly for his liking. He prayed for Ophelia to walk in. One hour passed. Two hours. Three hours. Finally, he had given up hope. He would just go home. But as soon as he arose, she walked in.

"Ophelia," he whispered to himself. She smiled at him and walked over.

"I had a feeling I'd find you here," she said.

"Then we both had the same feeling."

She giggled. He took her arm the way he had done the night before and they left together. They strolled along the streets talking and laughing for hours. She told him all about her dream to be a great actress; he told her about his career as a writer; she talked of her childhood in Paris; he talked of his childhood dream of Paris. They passed the windmill winds of the Moulin Rouge, the paintings and sculptures of the Louvre, finally they walked so far they came to the city limits of Paris.

"What time is it?" Ophelia asked in wonderment.

"Two o' clock in the morning," Evan replied.

"This night went by too fast." she sighed.

They had created their own world. Hours went like minutes. Where they went or how they got there neither knew nor cared. They turned around and made the five-hour walk toward home.

"I'm lucky I don't have to rehearse tomorrow," she commented as they turned onto Evan's street.

"And I work at home."

"What's it like?" she asked.

"What is what like?"

"To be a writer. To have no rules or directions," she explained.

"I'm not quite sure what you mean," he confessed.

"Well then," she said, "I'll have to see for myself."

He smirked and unlocked the apartment building's front door and led her in. She went toward the elevators.

"What do I keep telling you?" he dragged Ophelia by her arm to the staircase. He leaned in and kissed her; moreover, they continued the entire flight of the stairs and were still kissing as he opened his door. It was Evan's turn to lock the door that night.

Ophelia awoke the next morning afraid. Not from a bad dream, but from the realization that she was in love. She could not allow the relationship to continue. She left the security of his caressing arms and dressed; her clothes scattered about the floor; her brassiere on the bedpost. She walked to the door and as she left, she blew him one final kiss.