The excruciatingly hot, late-May morning sun shines brilliantly in the capri sky amidst fluffy, ghost white clouds. Hues of goldenrod, orange, and crimson from the ball of fire contrast with its capri surroundings, creating a picturesque vision in the sky that accentuates Paris' scenic view from every roof in the city. With temperatures soaring at 25°C this morning, the dense streets of Paris are hardly bearable to roam around unless absolutely necessary.

Summer has just barely commenced, yet we're already experiencing ungodly temperatures for this time of year. Due to the humidity, meteorologists have advised everyone to stay indoors where you'll probably have a nice air conditioner keeping your house as cool as a cucumber. But how can you possibly keep people off of the Parisian streets when the city is full of adventures waiting to be explored? It certainly won't kept me off of the streets today.

From the view in my living room area, I can see L'Arc de Triumph in my peripheries and La Tour Eiffel towering above the many rooftops in sight. As I admire the view, I stretch out my arms and yawn; it's been a long night and I hardly received a wink of sleep thanks to the heat and my writing. To get a better picture of my surroundings, I pick up my square, black-rimmed glasses and place them on my face, pushing them up against the bridge of my nose and positioning the specs so they're square in the center. Meilleur. Paris, Paris. Qu'est-ce que c'est, Paris? I think to myself as I peer into the distance, squinting my hazel eyes and shading them with a hand as the sun unfortunately shines directly into them. It's definitely way too bright and hot outside for 9:30 AM. The countless rooftops in view aren't an aesthetic turnoff. Paris has been around since the 3rd Century BC since being founded by Celtic people called the Parisii, who gave the city its name, adding to its history and give this city a little je ne sais quoi.

A loud knock on the door interrupts me from overlooking the city. I run a hand through my curls and disdainfully groan at the intruder before sluggishly walking over to see who could possibly want my attention at this time of day. I just got here last week, so I really don't know anyone at all.

"Quoi?" I frustratingly ask after I open the door, gritting my teeth and clenching my fists. I'm just not a fan of people interrupting me when I'm having a peaceful moment. I'm also not much of a people-person. "Que voulez-vous?"

I immediately ease up upon seeing my flat mate, Michael Clifford. He has he least French-sounding name in our building, but his thick, Parisian accent is undeniable. If you take him back to my hometown of Sydney and have him speak to people there, then you could definitely tell that he's a French native. I'm pretty sure girls would go crazy with his accent, green eyes, and sense of humor. I'm actually quite lucky that he needed someone to live with him, even if it's just for a few months. He basically saved my ass and the trouble of finding a place to stay when we ran into each other at Charles de Gaul. I already have money saved up from working all last year and he offered me a place to stay at a price I simply couldn't refuse. I eye the long paper bag and cardboard box in his hands and he chuckles.

"Ash, tu fais la grasse matinée ce matin," he states as he enters our flat, kicking the door shut with his right foot. He's so wrong. I pulled an all-nighter. "Alors je suis allé à la boulangerie-pâtisserie pour toi car tu écrirais." 

(You slept in this morning, so I went to the bakery for you because you were writing.)

I take the box and walk into our little kitchen to set the pastries on the counter. Michael loudly sighs as he places the baguette (I know it's a baguette because of the shape) right next to the box. As I rummage through the pantry to take out jar of strawberry preserves my mum sent me, Michael works on the coffee machine.

"C'est le dernier fois, Michael. Je te promis," I swear as I place the jar on the counter. "C'est mon boulot pour les matins. J'y vais demain."

(It's the last time, Michael. I promise. It's my morning job. I'll go there tomorrow.)

"Tu parles comme un singe!" Michael spits as he slices a piece of baguette. "Mais il y a une solution très simple." (You talk like a monkey! But there's a simple solution.)

"Et....c'est quoi?" (And...it's what?)

"Arrêtez l'écriture de nuit," he advises, pouring us both mugfuls of coffee. "Comme j'ai dit, c'est très simple." (Stop writing at night. Like I said, it's very simple.)

"Mais je pas le fais," I sigh as I take a seat and start munching on my strawberry preserve-slathered slice of warm baguette. For some reason, my glasses aren't cooperating with me this morning, so I have to shove them up the bridge of my nose before I can give Michael my explanation. "C'est pas facile à faire, Michael. Je peux pas écrire quand le soleil danse au ciel et regarder le monde comme un roi qui observe son Royaume. Pour moi, l'inspiration est la lune. Elle brille au ciel nocturne avec une présence forte. Elle est la pomme de mes yeux quand je m'assieds dans le toit avec un cahier et un stylo. Les étoiles, les lumières, l'air frais, et notamment la lune...ce sont mes inspirations. Je peux pas écrire sans eux."

(But I can't do that. It's not easy to do, Michael. I have to write when the sun dances in the sky and watches the world like a king observing his kingdom. My inspiration is the moon. It shines in the night sky with a strong presence. It's the apple of my eyes when I sit on the roof with a notebook and pen. The stars, the lights, the fresh air, and especially the moon...they're my inspirations. I can't write without them.)

Michael rolls his eyes and scoffs, taking a big sip out of his mug. "Ashton, tu parles de la lune comme elle est l'amour de sa vie. C'est bizarre."

(Ashton, you talk about the moon like it's the love of your life. It's crazy.)

"C'est la verité," I say with a shrug of my shoulders before downing the rest of my coffee and getting up to leave. "J'y vais."

"Où?"

(It's the truth. I'll go there. Where?)

"Peut-être pour trouver un boulot, peut-être pour quelqu'autre. Je sais pas. Le clé de ma jour est dehors, dans les rues de Paris," I declare as dab my index finger into the jar and eat it. "C'est un nouveau jour, Michael. Qui sait ce que la journée avance détient?"

(Maybe to find a job, maybe for something else. I don't know. The key to my day is outside, in the streets of Paris. It's a new day, Michael. Who knows what the day will hold?)

***

In preparation for the humid day ahead, I decided to go for a more lax look than normal, opting for a plain white tee and black skinny jeans with Converses rather than the boots I usually wear. I decided to take my messenger bag with me to put my notebook and pen just in case I see something inspiring. Even with transition lenses on my glasses, I still get insanely paranoid about my eyes and feel the need to squint them whenever I head out of a building and into sunlit territory. After stepping just one foot outside Michael and my flat, the sun's effects are already taking its toll on my body. The cotton fabric almost immediately clings to my body as I start perspiring; little beads of sweat drip off of my curls, descending on the concrete sidewalk at my feet. At least I put on a zillion SPF sunscreen. My skin would turn ten shades darker in a minute if I hadn't!

Around this time, there would usually be legions of people wandering around the streets. Tis the season for tourists to flock in and start soaking up Parisian fashion, arts, culture, and history. But it's too damn hot out for anyone to be out today, even if it's only 10:30 AM now. According to the weather app on my phone, the high's supposed to be 35°C; current temps are at 29°C. And right now, I'm not seeing that many people, just a couple or group passing by every now and then or people indoors at their workplace.

"C'est comme une ville morte mais plus chic," I say to myself as I run a hand through my curls, which are drenched with sweat. "I should probably get inside somewhere before I melt my face off." (It's like a dead town, but more chic.)

I continue walking to who knows where with my hands in my pockets, thinking that they'd be less sweaty there than if they were exposed to sunlight. But dark colors are absorbent, Ashton. It doesn't matter. Despite the humidity in the air, I keep walking. It's been about fifteen minutes into my walk now, and I'm gaining a massive headache. Fucking heat wave. You should have worn shorts. Just keep walking, Ashton. Keep on going until you reach that building.

By the time I feel like I'm going to faint from overheating and my throat is parched as fuck, I finally reach my destination: Menardin. Located on 187 Rue de Grenelle, Boulangerie Patisserie Menardin has become my favorite in the city, thanks to Michael. The morning after my first night in our flat, he forced me to wake up at essentially the crack of dawn just so we could walk over to the little bakery and get there in time for the shop to just open at 7 AM. I thought he was crazy for making me get up at such a hellish hour just for bread, but I was soon converted after one step and sniff inside. The fragrant smell of fresh baked bread that literally just came out of the oven made the early rise worth it. I remember Michael smirking to himself as I just stood there and breathed in every scent Menardin had to offer my nostrils. 

The old woman at the counter, Amélie, had the brightest and warmest look on her wrinkled face and graciously helped us pick out the freshest loaf of baguette, as well as some pain au chocolat, pain de Gênes, and pain aux raisins. I remember her giving us a hefty amount of each since Michael introduced me as his new flat mate; Amélie welcomed me with open arms as if I were her grandson instead of Michael.

"Ah, Ashton! Tu me manques ce matin, mon petit!" a familiar voice says as I enter Menardin. (I missed you this morning, my darling!)

A small lady with forest green eyes and silver hair tightly pulled back in a bun walks away from the counter to greet me. The sparkle in her eyes as she smiles is infectious; I bet Amélie Clifford was the belle of her time with plenty of guys begging to take her out. I give her a polite smile as she wraps her tiny arms around me to give me a quick hug.

"Desolé, Amélie." I apologetically say as I rub the back of my neck. "J'ai dormi très tard la nuit dernière car je devais écrire. Je peux pas écrire pendant le jour."

(Sorry, Amélie. I slept very late last night because I had to write. I can't write during the day.)

Amélie sighs and shakes her head. I feel like I'm about to get the same lecture her grandson just gave me about a half hour ago because whenever Amélie has her hands on her hips, she means serious business.

"C'est pas bon pour toi, mon petit. C'est pas bon pour ton santé. Il y a des conséquences pour ne pas dormir suffisamment. Sept heures. C'est combien d'heures on doit dormir chaque soir. Et toi? Combien d'heures as-tu, Ashton?"

(It's not good for you, my dear. It's bad for your health. There are consequences for not getting enough sleep. Seven hours. That's how many hours one must sleep each night. And you? How many hours have you had, Ashton?)

"Uh..."

To be honest, I didn't sleep a wink last night. I lied about sleeping in. I haven't been able to sleep at all because I've been so focused on living and breathing in Paris. I haven't had a proper night's sleep since I arrived in the city. I could have on my first night here, but Michael had to drag me over here and show me the wonders of his grandma's bakery. 

Despite my lack of sleep, I look alright. I didn't leave the house with dark circles under my eyes or really pale skin. I think it might have to do with the heat, the whole not being able to sleep thing and the reason why I don't look dead. It's just too hot out to be comfortable, especially since Michael's air conditioner broke three days ago and we've had to go old school and use fans to keep us cool.

"Exactement," the stern, little woman says with a huff. "Alors...que voudrais-tu? Quelque chose de doux? Quelque chose de savoreux?" (Exactly. So...what would you like? Something sweet? Something savory?)

"Non, merci." I politely decline. "Il fait trop chaud et je sortirais de la chaleur avant je me suis effondré. Je vais bien maintenant, alors je devrais probablement quitter."

(No thanks. It's so hot and I wanted to get out of the heat before I collapse. I'm good now, so I should probably leave.)

Amélie nods her head and smiles small as she motions for me to leave. As she heads back to the counter, I steer myself towards the door, running a hand through my hair just to make sure it's not still drenched. I take one last whiff of Menardin before opening the door, exposing the boulangerie-pâtisserie to incredibly hot, yet natural air.

"Attends!" Amélie shouts before I can step outside, forcing me to swiftly turn around. "Faites-attention, Ashton! Il fait très chaud." (Wait! Be careful, Ashton! It's very hot.)

"Je boirai beaucoup d'eau," I assure her with a smile before closing the door. (I'll drink a lot of water.)

Once again, I'm faced with the nearing midday heat. I swear temperatures escalated since I went into Mendarin. I roll up my shirtsleeves and wipe sweat off of my brows before heading further into the city. Surprisingly, there are actually people braving the heat just like me. But unlike me, everyone seems paired up or in groups; I seem to be the only one traversing by myself. Most people are smart enough to wear singlets, skirts, dresses, shorts, thongs...not black skinny jeans and Converses like me.

I aimlessly wander around without looking at the signs. I turn a corner whenever I feel like it and just let my feet take me wherever it wants to go. Somehow, I managed to find my way to the foot of Le Louvre, where loads of people are passing by. I knew it was going to be boiling out, so I smartly packed a bottle of ice cold water. This seems like a pretty good stop for a water break.

Safely under the shade of a nearby tree, I sit my ass down on a bench and dig through my messenger for the water bottle. Along with a notebook and pen for jotting purposes, I packed a bag of pomegranates, some trail mix, and my water bottle. Thank God! The 24 oz black and grey ALEX Bottle is literally my life saver right now and I'm so glad I left the flat with it rather than leaving it behind. A single twist separates me from the cool, clear liquid inside. I thirstily down half of the bottle, deciding to preserve the other half for later since there's still a long way's to go in this day.

"Puis-je m'ssieds?" asks someone from out of nowhere, a female voice. (Can I sit down?)

With my mouth now full of pomegranate, I turn to the speaker, a petite brunette with piercing jade eyes. The long, wavy chestnut tresses on her head look like they belong to a Disney princess because they just look so smooth, soft, and silky. And then there's her eyes, mesmerizing beautiful like two actual pieces of jade stone. She smiles small and crosses her arms over her chest, seeming a bit irritant. Oh wait...

"T'assied-toi," I instruct as I point at the empty seat beside me. (Sit.)

The brunette sits down and nods her thanks. I reach into the bag and grab another fistful of pomegranates. Not wanting to seem rude, I turn to the brunette. Maybe if I offer her some, she'll think I'm nice.

"Pomegranate?" I ask, opening my fist to expose the blood red fruit.

"Sure. Thanks!"

My skin tingles once her fingers reach into my palm to grab some of the fruit. One by one, she pops the corn-like fruit into her mouth. Meanwhile, I just shove whatever's left in my hand into my mouth. She looks up at me and smiles, eyes alight with tints of cerulean in them. She's really pretty, Ashton. Just talk to her. Wait a sec...SHE SPEAKS ENGLISH! YOU DON'T HAVE TO SPEAK FRENCH WITH HER IF YOU DON'T WANT TO!

"Y-you speak English?" I ask as I dig into the bag and grab more fruit.

"Yeah. I'm American, actually. I moved here not that long ago for culinary school," she explains.

"Oh, cool! So you want to be a chef or something?"

"Yeah, something like that. The dream is to open my own bakery and have it go worldwide," she dreamily mentions. "I wanna be the Gordon Ramsay of bakeries. But what about you? Your accent's definitely not French. You sound more Australian than anything."

I pop a few pomegranates into my mouth and shrug my shoulders. She's right. Australian accents aren't exactly that hard to pick out, too. I mean, we're more distinctive than Kiwis, but nobody can really grasp the New Zealand accent; it's just weird.

"Yup, I'm definitely Australian. I'm from Sydney and I kinda moved here out on a whim to just take in Paris and absorb its lifestyle," I explain. "I'm only here for a few months, though, so I'm heading back home around August."

The brunette looks at me in shock, eyes wide open and mouth agape. Yeah, I'd probably have that reaction, too, if I were her. No sane person would just leave their country just because. Most people have a reason for moving countries like to escape war, live a better life, or pursue a dream. What am I in Paris for? To gain a bit of perspective in life and inspiration for my writing. Yes, Ashton. What a great reason for leaving home.

"Okay, so you're not here for school like me. What exactly are you here for?" she curiously asks.

"To experience a new culture?" I respond in more of a question as I shrug my shoulders. "I dunno. I just needed a change and went for it. And I've gotten a lot of inspiration for my writing."

"You're a writer?"

The way her eyes light up in peaked interest is so adorable. It might be the sun reflecting off of her irises, but they're sparkling from excitement and interest.

"Yeah. I'm a script writer. My dream is to see my shows either in the West End or Broadway. Really big aspirations, but someone's gotta dream big."

She coyly chuckles and runs a hand through her luscious locks. She looked really hot when she pushed her hair back. The brunette fishes her phone out of her purse and groans when she shoves it back inside. She un-sneakily grabs some pomegranate out of my palm and pops them into her little mouth.

"Wh-what is it? Is it me?" I frantically ask, scanning her face out of fear.

"No, it's not you," she assures me, laughing lightly at my sudden, frenetic behavior. "It's me. I gotta go. I'm gonna be late for class if I don't jet. It was nice talking to you...um..."

"Ashton," I bashfully introduce myself as I hold my hand out. "Ashton Irwin."

She takes my hand and smiles as she shakes it. "Well, Ashton Irwin, c'était sympa de te parler. Merci pour les grenades." (It was nice talking to you. Thanks for the pomegranates.)

The brunette gets up and starts walking away, the small pitter patter of her sandals against concrete being hardly audible. I can't let her get away, though.

"WAIT! I DON'T EVEN KNOW YOUR NAME!" I shout before she can get out of earshot.

"STEPHANIE!" she yells behind her shoulder. "STEPHANIE LUNE. THAT'S MY NAME."

I watch as Stephanie walks out of view, possibly for forever. I may know her name, but she didn't leave me her number or anything that could possibly keep us in contact. Just because I don't have any information about her doesn't mean I can't remember her, I think as I stuff the bagged pomegranate into my messenger bag and pull out my pen and notebook. I flip it open to the first blank page, which happens to be the actual first page since this is a new notebook. I jot down Stephanie's name and a few phrases about her: cute smile, long and wavy chestnut hair, incredible eyes, friendly, really short, American, stunning...

A surge of pain through my head forces me to stop writing. I might be nicely shaded, but that doesn't mean I'm completely free from the humidity when it's everywhere. It's inescapable because no matter how big the tree and how cool the shade, the heat's going to find its way to me and give me the most painful headache I've ever had.

After collecting my things and slinging my bag over my shoulders, I decide to hail a taxi to take me home. There's no way I'm walking back to Blvd Cousteau in this sweltering heat when taxis exist. The cool, air conditioned vehicle is like finding an oasis in the middle of the desert. You just can't beat having something cold in heat like this. 

My taxi driver is a middle-aged man with an impressive, grey beard; I could grow one, but that'd take a while. My glasses have misted from the humidity, so I take them off of my face, blow on them, and wipe them with the hem of my shirt even though it's kinda wet, too. Within a matter of twenty minutes, I'm back in Appartement 331C.

I arrive back at a very hot and empty flat. Michael unplugged all of the fans to save electricity. I heavily sigh and throw my bag onto the sofa before running into the kitchen to sort through the freezer. My hazel eyes widen in delight upon seeing the tub of mint chocolate chip ice cream hidden in the back. Michael's not gonna care if I take it, I think to myself as I reach inside and grab the heavenly cold bucket.

I collapse onto the onyx sofa with a spoon in one hand, and an opened tub of ice cream in the other. Anxiously, I dig the silver utensil into the plastic bucket and scoop out a heapful of the frozen, light green delicacy. One taste is all it takes for my taste buds to get to heaven and my body to cool down a bit. Eating ice cream on an insanely hot, spring afternoon is so much better than sex. Okay, maybe not, but it's pretty damn close. As my body cools down and the combination of mint and chocolate chip tingles my throat, a notification text sounds from my phone.

Michael: Je viens chez nous tard ce soir. Mon patron...tu comprends. (I'm coming home late tonight. My boss...you understand.)

Me: Ouah, je comprends. Text moi quand vous savez à quelle heure vous venez. (Yeah, I understand. Text me what time you're coming.)

Michael: D'accord. (Okay.)

If Michael's going to come back late, at least he can't argue with me about my late night roof writing. We're both going to be up working. It's only fair to me if he doesn't slam me about my work habits. But he is the one making money...not me.

I take another spoonful of ice cream into my mouth and take the time to just surf social media, mainly Twitter and Facebook. I'm guilty for following mostly celebrities on Twitter. Other than that, I don't follow that many people from real life, just my closest friends and my family. I graduated high school and I want nothing to do with the people I went to school with unless we're friends. 

After about five minutes of trolling Twitter, I decide to switch over to Facebook. The little red notification on my messages and friend request baffles me. Nobody uses Facebook to message me, and I don't know why anyone would want to friend request me on this thing. I mainly text or call everyone I know. Curiously, I tap on my messages to see who could possibly want to talk to me on this shit site I'm rarely on.

"No way," I breathe in disbelief at the name of the person. "This can't be right. I'm definitely seeing things. This heat's getting to me. There's just NO WAY."

I cast my phone aside to shovel the rest of the ice cream into my mouth. I figured that a brain freeze will clear up my mind since it's still really hot in here. It's partially my fault for not plugging in and turning on the fans, but ice cream's going to cool me down faster than any fan blowing in my face. Once the tub is no more, I rub my glasses just to make sure they're actually cleaned, then proceed to pick up my phone again. I slide the unlock button and there it is, a message from the Stephanie Lune from the Louvre bench staring me straight in the face, and she wants to meet me for lunch tomorrow.