Guilty Pleasure - Maria Robinson

You crashed into a black and blue sleep on the night train from Marseilles to Paris.

You wondered if the six hours spent with Ben drinking pastis in the bar and gulping kisses in his room had been true. You left the bright city on the Mediterranean from the St. Charles Station and walked out into the shivering autumn wind at St. Lazare station in Paris past midnight. The tears that you shed in the taxi to the Champs Elysee were rock crystals. You knew it had been too easy. You'd fallen in love in a way that only the French can describe: the lightning flash, the earth torn asunder and your heart, heavy as a stone.