By dinnertime, my high had worn off and I was sad that I was in Paris without Alan and now, without Kirsten, who had flown home. My friend Naomi termed this my “withoutmyhoneymoon.” I sat in a restaurant eating dinner, morosely staring out to the sidewalk, thinking I probably looked like the Absinthe Drinker we’d seen at the Musee D’Orsay.
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