PETRICHOR /ˈpɛtrʌɪkɔː/ a pleasant smell that frequently accompanies the first rain after a long period of warm, dry weather. '''''''''''''''''''''''''''' He paused, and I looked up to see confusion swept over his features, a furrow in his brow and pursed lips. I chuckled, grabbing the book off of him. The next line was in French. "A moi. L'histoire d'une de mes folies," I said without difficulty. "Okay, so you can speak French perfectly, but do you even know what you said," he said. "Yes. That meant: To me. The story of one of my follies, or more colloquially put: foolish acts, mistakes," I explained and he just looked down at me with disbelief as I gave him back the book. "I may underestimate you Luce, I guess that is a 'folies' of mine," he said, pronouncing the word wrong. I laughed at him but he continued, "no, you are exceptional," he said and glanced back at the page. "Exceptional indeed, " he repeated. I was unsure of the reason why my body responded to his compliment, but I felt my cheeks flush and I knew that crimson had dawned on them.