Some people might find it jarring. The sight of so many marooned underneath awnings at the height of a torrential downpour in the middle of June. Most, despite everything, still expect the seasons to follow certain guidelines. But, even before the environmental sea change, Paris never did. Was always prone to rash, erratic mood swings. It was no use “planning” for anything in that town—other than to plan for weather disappointment, ergo year-round seasonal depression. The Scandinavian countries might have the most well-known reputation for invoking “SAD” with its dark, cold conditions, but, as far as Loïc was concerned, Paris ought to be a close runner-up. In any event, he was used to it by now. At twenty-eight years old, he had never known anything else. Oh sure, he had done his fair share of traveling, like most Europeans, but Paris was forever his benchmark. And, in stark contrast to most Parisians, he chose to stay in town for the majority of the summer, only leaving for, at best, one week during the end of July. But he was always there in August, and this year would prove no different. Not even in the face of that most horrific of events, that most American of catnip: the Olympics.

All his friends—the ones who tried to convince him to come along with them on their vacations on a regular basis—begged him to leave. To get the fuck out of town while he still could. But he was quite content to simply remain. In fact, he was looking forward to the opportunities it would provide him. Not just in terms of “social studies,” but also sexual ones. Although his family and friends thought he was mad for missing the chance to rent out his flat to some of the many desperate tourists willing to pay ten times the average price on account of the Olympics, Loïc knew there was wisdom in staying. That there would be a surfeit of women just gagging to fuck someone like him. That is to say, a Frenchman—of which there would be so few to choose from during the month of August in Paris. Particularly because the weather had become so insufferable. Carrying the endless rain of the June gloom into what was supposed to be the “sunniest” month of the year. That had never been less true than now. 

While other places were practically melting populations off the face of their grids, Paris remained a perpetually wet, gray milieu. And yet, that still didn’t exactly make it “sought after” as a port in the literal storm. People continued to prefer “tropical” getaways. Increasingly hard to come by. Even having “oodles” of cash was no longer a guarantee for the “perfect” vacation. All the more reason, as far as Loïc figured, to stay in town. No point trying to seek “better” when it no longer existed. The best that one could hope for out of a location these days was not to get bombed, burned or flooded. More than the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, Notre-Dame, that’s what Paris offered. A place not to die in some especially horrific way (okay, minus the arbitrary beheadings and suicide bombings). What more could one ask for? Definitely not “bright, sunny” conditions. 

For Loïc, a wide array of snatch was all he really wanted over something as prosaic as “good” weather. And that’s exactly what was descending upon the City of Light in just a month. He could hardly wait. Not just for their presence, but to start wielding his charm in a manner that no longer worked on French women. Or even on other European femmes, for the “frogs” were mostly repulsive/annoying to them. But the Americans, they still aime’d les français. And Loïc would rather bark up the right arbres than the wrong ones. So in anticipation of all the vagin that was to materialize inside his apartment (conveniently located near the many Olympic events that would take place at Trocadéro), he proceeded to turn it into something more closely resembling a “love nest.” This included “accents” like a white fur rug, the fur of which was of dubious origin. Black and white striped throw pillows. Sheer, off-white curtains. Shit like that. Shit he never would have otherwise gotten were he not cultivating a “pussy palace.”

When the moment arrived, it was not exactly what he had expected. While Loïc had hoped and anticipated a revolving door of moule, the very first day he went out in search of une femme américaine, it happened to be pouring down rain in gushing, waterfall-like sheets. One of the most intense and ceaseless downpours of the summer, as a matter of fact. Thus, when he took to the streets with his giant umbrella (big enough for two, bien sûr), he quickly encountered one of the most attractive women he had ever seen. Stranded underneath an awning in pink stiletto sandals, a short black skirt and a white crop top with the word “Puttana” written across it in black cursive script. Of course she wasn’t American. 

Her name was Aurora and she wasn’t in town for the Olympics either. This she told Loïc after he provided her with his umbrella and offered her the shelter of his “pussy palace” until the storm subsided. He ended up peeling her clothes off anyway, even though they weren’t wet. But luckily for him, she was. And so, in the midst of their post-coital powwow, they got to know one another. Loïc learned that Aurora was only here to house sit for her sister, who didn’t trust any stranger enough to rent it out while she was on vacation for the summer in Saint-Malo, where her husband’s family had a vacation home. He also learned that she had no interest in coming to France, yet always found herself in town from Milan for some family or business-related matter. Her business, of course, was fashion. She was a seamstress at one of the major houses, but her true ambition, unsurprisingly, was to create designs of her own. Alas, she never had much time to focus on that pursuit, though she hoped to be able to this summer, with so many hours to herself alone in her sister’s apartment. 

As it transpired, though, neither Loïc nor Aurora’s summer went quite according to their original plans. While Loïc had possessed the simple goal of drowning in American pussy contained within his newly decorated “bachelor pad,” he instead found himself constantly over at Aurora’s. Likewise, while Aurora had hoped to devote her summer to creating new designs and relishing a bit of solitude, she became entirely enmeshed with Loïc. The two were inseparable by the time the Olympics were in full swing. Not that they got out much to catch even the slightest glimpse of what was going on. Instead, they were cocooned inside, not wont to face the “real” world or any of its bad weather. Who needed to bother with concern over such a thing if they never ventured into the mean streets of Paris? 

Despite staving off the outside realm, eventually, and as it is said, all good things had to come to an end. Aurora was due back in Milan on August 28th, a date that came far more quickly than either of them had anticipated. Though she toyed with extending her stay, in the end, she knew she had to go back for the sake of her job. Loïc suggested she might try to find something in Paris, but she was dismissive of the idea, insisting that the French never hired people who didn’t speak fluent French. All she had was Italian and her mangled English (through which they had been communicating all summer). Loïc would have given anything to be able to tell her that she could simply stay and he would financially support her while she got together enough designs to draw interest and start her own clothing line. Alas, he lived on whatever measly paycheck his various “odd jobs”—most consistently, bartending—afforded him. It was barely enough for him to get by with a few “extras,” let alone another person. So he could make no offer to her…apart from really good sex. But, as Anna Nicole Smith would tell you, sometimes good sex must be secondary to financial security. 

Loïc didn’t want to go with her to the airport, so he didn’t make the suggestion. He hated morose goodbyes so much that he slipped out of Aurora’s apartment the morning of her departure before she could stop him. Before she could utter that horrible word: ciao. They hadn’t discussed whether they would keep in touch or try to go back and forth to visit one another—it was a subject deliberately avoided at all costs. And now that the time had come to separate, Loïc’s automatic reaction was to ghost. It was an instinct that came naturally, as perhaps it did to most men who couldn’t deal with the intensity of any feelings for more than a few minutes (maximum). 

Back in his apartment, which he could scarcely recognize after staying away from it for most of the summer (save to pick up a new round of clothes), he fell into bed. When Loïc awoke, approximately three hours later, it wasn’t “naturally,” so much as the sound of someone banging on his door finally roused him from a deep slumber. As he went to answer it, the only thing he had time to register was the intensity with which the rain was pelting against the roof and windows. Another summer in paradise. 

When he opened the door, the last person he expected to see was Aurora. Yet there she was, her suitcase and the clothes on her body completely rain-soaked. Before he could say anything, she announced, “My flight was canceled.” Just as you could only hope not to be bombed, burned or flooded in this day and age, when it came to travel, all you could hope for was that the plane might leave at all. But something, Loïc reasoned, had intervened. He didn’t want to say (out loud) that it was a higher power. It would be narcissistic to think so. Yet he did believe there could be no other explanation (you know, apart from the general ghettoness of the twenty-first century). And so, without saying anything more, he pulled her inside, removed her clothes just as he had the first time he brought her into the space (though they were dry that time) and proceeded to ravage her. The rain had trapped her again, and, this time, he wasn’t going to be foolish enough to let her go. Maybe it was Paris itself that was the higher power intervening.