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Who admired seventeenth-century architecture with two tired, arguing children in tow? she thought to herself. Who stopped to study the details of medieval gargoyles while hauling bags of groceries?
    Oscar was a charmer, and he made her laugh with stories from his business travels in the world of pro sports. They held hands and shared ice cream. They kissed in the street. Oscar took her hand everywhere, and put his arm around her at every opportunity.
    They ended the day with a stroll through the Jardin du Luxembourg, resplendent and majestic at the height of the season, topaz-toned sand and stone bright in the summer sun. “I’d forgotten that Paris is such a fabulous city,” she said, “or maybe you are what’s fabulous?” She looked at him.
    He smiled and winked. “It’s the moment we have together, and it’s you .” He drew her to him and kissed her.
    “There’s a restaurant I want to take you to,” Oscar said as they were leaving the gardens.
    “You took me out last night. I’ll make you something at home,” Valérie replied.
    “Didn’t you say that this is a little holiday?” he said playfully. “And on holidays don’t you eat in restaurants? Let me take you. My wife buys all those food magazines, but they just sit there, so I read them. I love to eat. I read about another new bistro.” He took out his handheld and searched for the address. “Here it is. Let’s go.” He looked up and down the street, scouting for a taxi.
    “Your wife…” Valérie started.
    Oscar stopped her midsentence, putting his index finger to her lips. “‘My wife,’ ‘your husband’—don’t worry about anything. This is our little ‘lost weekend’ away from everyone. When it’s over, we’ll go back to our worries.” He kissed her, and soon flagged a passing cab. She thought, in the taxi, as he held her hand, that he was right. There was no point in overthinking a little tryst, and she promised herself that she wouldn’t mention it again. Reality, she knew, would return soon enough.
    They ate in a stylish bistro that celebrated classic French cuisine done with global flavors. They fed each other grilled sardines dipped in miso-rosemary sauce from lacquered chopsticks. They drank a dry white wine, and ate French favorites—woodsy cèpes, aubergines and courgettes—in Sichuan spices. They nibbled and shared desserts of apples with burnt sugar, folded into layers of paper-thin Greek phyllo pastry. “I love to eat with you,” Oscar said, brushing her cheek with his hand. “You enjoy food like you enjoy sex, and that’s a very sexy thing.” He reached underneath the table and caressed her thigh.
    “Here’s to us and our little holiday together” she replied, raising her glass. He raised his, but before they drank he took her other hand and brought it to his lips. She smiled and exclaimed, “I think I’d like a vacation in New York!”
    “Why don’t you come to my hotel tonight, and enjoy a four-star room? It’s no fun for me all alone.” He brushed a finger against her cheek again and smiled in turn. “Let’s start walking, and if we get tired we can grab a cab.”

    They walked toward the river, stopping in front of small gallery windows to look at paintings. They passed a bookstore having an author’s reading and stopped in the doorway to listen. They continued on, sharing favorite authors.
    The only sour note in this symphony of romance was when Valérie realized she couldn’t be away from the apartment for a night without an excuse for Philippe. She hated lying to him—hated the feeling of guilt in the pit of her stomach—but her desire for Oscar was greater than her wish to examine her life outside the confines of these few precious days.
    “Listen,” she said to Oscar, “I have to make a call…to Philippe…. I’ll just step over there a moment,” she said, gesturing to a large doorway entrance into a courtyard between two ancient buildings.
    He nodded in agreement. “I’ll wait