We called for pizza as we read through ancient mails that seemed to be love letters for someone named Helen.
Leila and I have been reading the letters together one by one the whole day. So far, we've read thirteen letters when a man called from outside our door.
"Livraison de pizza!"
"I'll get it." I dropped the letter on my bed and ran to the door.
I received the pizza in exchange for twenty-seven Euros.
"Oh, and madame," the French deliveryman said staring at the floor on the side of our door. "Vous avez une lettre."
I didn't understand what he said. I followed his gaze and there, on the varnished cherry floor, was a new letter lying on the ground.
I brought the letter in and placed the recent letter underneath the pile of old ones as Leila and I ate pizza on the bed as we continued to read on until we finally slept with an empty pizza box on our side and the fourteenth letter in my hand.
YOU ARE READING
It Started in Paris
ChickLitLauren goes to Paris for a business trip. She ignores the countless love letters that arrives at her door in her apartment in Paris. Her curiosity clicks her into opening the letters. Someone named Jean Hughe is the writer of the letters for...
