Love Locked in Paris - a fictional romantic story using the bridge locks in Paris by moi.

It's time for RomanticFridayWriters,. We are a group of writers who post to a theme every second Friday. The stories are generally romantic, but not necessarily 'romance' with a HEA ending. If you're a writer of prose or poetry you are welcome to join up. Visit our dedicated site and read the Submission Guidelines.

I recently posted pictures of a stroll along the Left Bank on this site, and promised a romantic story using the locks. That's one of the reasons I'm posting on my Pichets in Paris blog this challenge. And the reason I've gone all out with my photos...hope you like this Special Edition.

 

Love Locked in Paris

The  most romantic day of my life – Notre Dame's aged bricks and soaring buttresses kissed by sunset – the lock-filled  bridge to the Left Bank – lovers sharing wine.

My candy pink dress with its French Poodle embroidery flared around my knees. Pink satin 4-inch heels complemented my black net stockings. A tiny posy of white roses felt just right.

Mitch, devastatingly handsome in his black suit kissed the ring on my finger – could things get any better?

‘Let’s do it!’ he said.

We walked to our chosen spot midway across the bridge. Mitch reached into his pocket and flipped the copper in his hands.

‘I had it engraved.’

I wrapped my arms around his waist and read – ' Capt'nFlynn, Mastarata  25-June-10’.

'You used our special names!'

We looped the lock over the wire and clicked it shut. A passing tourist took our photo.

‘Let’s come back every year,’ I said.

‘I can’t think of any better way to celebrate our love.’ 

☁☁☁

Tragic how the skies were smudgy today, not brilliant like two years ago.

Tragic that my emotions were so raw.

Finally, I found it - bright and shiny in the gloom.

Ironic.

I attached the tiny plastic envelope.

I sobbed for our fractured love.

Darling Mitch

I could have trusted you instead of showering you with jealousy.

I could have travelled with you instead of putting my job first.

I could have forgiven you for your indiscretion instead of throwing you out without listening to you.

Your Dearest Polly

I strolled along the Seine, then ordered mussels in garlic cream sauce at our favourite restaurant in the Latin Quarter.

The 17^th Century hotel was not at all romantic without Mitch. Climbing the winding stairs was just a chore.

The door opened before I could turn the key.

‘Mitch! What - ?’

‘Same as you I imagine.’

‘But –‘.

‘I read your letter.’

‘Then you  -‘.

'I saw our photo album.'

'I needed reminding.'

‘I’m sorry sweetheart. It wasn’t you who needed reminding  – it was me. I’ll do better. Will you take me back? I'm so sorry. I love you..’

I twined my arms around his neck and soaked his shirt with my tears.

‘I love you Mitch. I don’t want a life without you.’

His arms felt so right, around me where they belonged – how could it be any better?

©DeniseCovey2012


WORDS: 393
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