meet me in paris | vignettes

and so it began

It was meant to be a business trip.

Italy had managed to surpass every one of my expectations. The food, the weather, the architecture.

The men.

You know, I heard stories about beautiful Italian men, but I didn't believe them until I met you.

You were with your father, my client, tall, wearing custom Armani and a gleaming Patek Phillipe and leather shoes so pristine I could see my reflection in them. You walked with the easy swagger only generations of money could breed. I still remember the smirk on your face.

Afterwards, you took me to dinner. 

"I like cultivating relationship with our partners," You said, in that tone of yours, and I couldn't hide the shudder that ran down my spine.

The restaurant was small, family-run, the kind you see in movies. It felt like a movie, sitting across from you on the balcony with a view out to the Mediterranean, the sun setting into shades of orange and pink. We drank wine, your choice, of course, white and cold and perfect for the heat of the Amalfi summer. We ate, again, your choice, I wanted to see what you'd do when given control. 

The food was delicious. Your accent was better.