The Paris Postcard
There’s nothing more romantic than stealing in Paris.
Gaspard has known for weeks the heist is coming. Our eyes have met through coffee cup steam in that crumbling cafe on the Seine, and he knew it was me brushing against him in the train station for his wallet. A flirtation. We are the only thieves capable of stealing a Renior from the other. C'est tout à fait naturel; he knows of me. Oh, I know nothing more than a photograph and his antique-like eyes from the cafe. So strong, yes, but in some things the woman must make the first move.
As I open my door to my room, the dust has moved on the fringes of the rug. My heart falls as the door shuts. My briefcase, my cameras, all gone, and I know what this means: a painting missing in my study. My heart knows it before my mind—Gaspard has dominated me.
He has left a vase of red roses on my hotel table. Fragrant, soft, and beautiful. Filling the room.
“Oh, Gaspard…“ I whisper.
The silly boy has left fingerprints on the vase. And a receipt on the floor.
"Now, I have you even more."