Copyright 1999 by Dazzababe

Special thank you to Clara for help in research and translation.

Many cities around the world have subway systems. Some are simple, some are complicated. But none are impossible to understand the way Metro in Paris is. "Darren, let's be real. We're lost," I said, exasperated.

"We're not lost. The Paris system is easier than New York's."

"At least the New York system is in English," I snapped, failing to leash my excessive irritation.

"Sabrina, we're not lost," Darren insisted. "Look--" He physically turned me so we were both facing the Metro map. "we got on at Etoile, right? We're supposed to be going to Opera."

"On the 7 line," I said.

"Right," he agreed. "Now we're--"

"At Balard. On the 8 line."

Darren stopped his train of thought. "On the 8 line?"

"And we're supposed to be on the 7," I said, trying not to sound too smug.

"The 7," Darren repeated. He looked at me evenly. "Alright, I suppose this is your cue to tell me I fucked up."

I gave him my sweetest look. "Darren, why would I ever tell you such a thing? But yeah, you fucked up."

"Thanks Sabrina. I knew I could count on you."

"You're quite welcome." Ah, the fun of touring Paris as ordinary mortals, I sighed to myself so Darren wouldn't get wind of my annoyance. Any other well-known pop singer would have insisted on the celebrity treatment. Not Darren. Oh yes, we did fly first class--Darren and I wouldn't insist on anything less--but other than that, he was adamant on seeing the City of Lights as everyone else would.

Everyone else in a first-class manner, of course.

The trip was Darren's present to me, a cheer-up gift he offered after I either quit or got fired from my job tending an Upper East Side bar, depending on who you asked. The trouble was, as it always is, I was never a girl who tolerated too much bullshit from anyone. Not even Darren. He knows I'd tell him where to go in a second. And I have.

Right now, I was extremely tempted to do it again.

As if sensing this, Darren slid his left arm around my slender waist, resting his hand on my stomach. His blue-grey eyes gazed into my brown ones. "We're supposed to be on holiday. Let's not fight, okay?" he said gently.

I settled into the warm crook of his arm, snuggling closer as I smelled the Dolce and Gabbana cologne he always wore. He looks so beautiful, and smells so good, I could never be angry at him for too long.

"Fine," I mumbled slightly above my breath, giving him a brief pout just to show him he wasn't going to win that easily.