![]() Lovers would come here with their padlocks or buy a lock from the vendors lining the bridge. After all, there was something far more romantic about this bridge of promises than even the top of the Eiffel Tower at dusk. To any tourist on the Seine, Juliet was just another lovelorn girl mooning over each padlocked promise, hoping that one day she’d have someone to vow forever with. Juliet tried not to interrupt moments between lovers as she ducked between them, hoping for a closer look at the locks fastened to the Love-Lock Bridge. ![]() The locks never stopped, and they were all wrong. She turned onto the Pont des Arts, the metal footbridge that spanned the Seine. ![]() Every second she lost now was a second lost with him, and those seconds were already so fleeting and infrequent her heart could barely stand it. Anything heavier, louder, and someone would have stopped to ask her where she’d found that shoulder-skimming button-down (old shirt of her brother’s), or who made the black-and-brown leather belt softened with age that cinched her waist (really two old belts she’d found at flea markets and twisted together her way of wearing them suggested a designer who’d worked hard to engineer them that way). ![]() She slipped between the couples, glad she’d worn fairy-light flats that made her steps soft and fast. “Excuse me, excusez-moi, s’il vous plait … pardonnez-moi.…” Tourists walked in slow-moving romantic pairs, shoulders and hips together, each set like a locked gateway blocking her path. JULIET RACED ALONG the right bank of the Seine. ![]()
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