Despite his intentions to the contrary, Camilla's presence in Paris made manifest in his dreams. His sleep was fitful, and he woke well before his partner Mary, who apparently saw no need to wake up and explore the city of love; instead, she seemed to desire nought but to to sleep. Whether it was on the plane, the train or in the room they were staying in: she was a deep sleeper. Arthur rose and left her to her own dreams, probably a thousand times less troublesome than his own: she had no former partner haunting her,<i>clearly</i>. He rifled through his suitcase to find a suitable outfit, considering the climate. One of his favoured patterned shirts; a casual-but-sleek blazer and a pair of trousers ought to do it. It'd suit him for whatever occasion came up: not too formal, yet it didn't leave him looking out of place in a city where somehow,<i>everyone </i>was well-dressed.<br/><br/><div class="bbCodeSpoiler">
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<span>Spoiler: <span class="bbCodeSpoiler-button-title">Arthur's appearance</span></span>
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</div><br/>Arthur didn't have to wander far from his lodging to find somewhere appropriate for breakfast. A cigarette, a long black and a croissant. That perfect, idealised French breakfast called to him, and thankfully, the pastries here were in ample supply. It was only a few doors down, just near the corner of his almost-laneway and the main thoroughfare. A set of automatic double-doors welcomed him inside, but the line that greeted him... was not nearly as welcoming. He looked behind him once; spotting another crowd of people about to pass through the very same doors that had parted for him. Well, at least he wasn't going to be at the<i>back </i>of the line. Strangely, there were more than enough tables free for all of the customers waiting,<i>and then some</i>, but perhaps the French idea of table service wasn't applicable here. Arthur reasoned that they'd all be ordering for take-away, and that as soon as he got to the front of the line he'd be fine.<br/><br/>Having no menu to capture his attention, he began to fidget. Fingers tapped against the wool of his trousers, and he decided to begin the age-old art of people watching while waiting in line. It was something that use of subway systems the world over had left him a master at. Arthur could notice someone before they even realised he'd been watching them. It was about five faces into the game he had constructed for himself before his heart almost stopped entirely. Was it? No fucking way. It couldn't be! The line moved forward, and in his daze, he seemed to forget how to move his feet: the patron behind him, not realising that Arthur hadn't moved in tandem with the line, walked right into his back. "Excuse moi," the older man barked, clearly displeased. Arthur couldn't care less, and he quickly gathered his composure and returned to his place. He had to look again. He couldn't be sure. What were the chances of this?<br/><br/>Turning his head more to the side, he realised that it was indeed the woman that he had been apparently cursed to encounter. How was this possible? Arthur's mind raced as he wondered if she had noticed<i>him</i>, and what the fallout from such a mutual observation could be. It was too late: his second glance caught hers, and they locked eyes from six-places apart in the line. He could see her mouth move, confirming his realisation that she had recognised him. It was like time had frozen; yet, the was this burning fire that suddenly leapt to life inside of him. Camilla. His<i>true </i>love. She had to be. What cruel game was the universe playing on the two of them, bringing them together in Paris; where only lovers came to be together? His lips moved, whispering her name, alas no sound would be heard: "Camilla." She would no doubt be able to read them. Outside of this moment in time, the very same elderly gentleman behind Arthur had grown rather disgruntled that he was once again holding up the line. He barked something in French, and pushed past the American tourist. Arthur stumbled out of his place, putting himself in full view of Camilla's gaze. A deer stuck in the headlights. He had to make the first move.<br/><br/>Arthur approached his ex-partner, the soles of his feet feeling as if they were encased in concrete. "C-Camilla?" he stammered, trying to say her name in one fluid motion but failing. Surely she would excuse his surprise: there would undoubtedly be the same feelings rushing through her mind; the blood pumping loud enough that he could swear the sound in his ears was deafening. "This can't be happening," he said quickly, lower; but still surely audible if Camilla was paying attention. If she wasn't, perhaps she wouldn't have heard him: but the confusion would be visible enough on his face. No longer in line, he had to hope that she'd let him back in with her if he had any hope of getting some food: the line behind her had essentially doubled in size. Fuck... this was a rock and a hard place if he'd ever been in one. Every moment of longing he'd experienced over the last 48 hours where Camilla's existence had hung in his mind tormented him: had he manifested this into existence?<br/><br/>"You think I could...," he pauses, knowing that asking to cut in line with her was going to be a little awkward. He decided to leave the sentence hanging in mid-air, giving her the chance to spare him the ritual humiliation and let him into her company. It was then, standing in front of her, that he realised how attractive she still was: as classy as every Parisian woman he'd read about in the magazines; her satin blouse making him feel incredibly overdressed. This was going to be a trial by fire, wasn't it?