“Urotherapy is supposed to have many health benefits, including curing cancer,” he states, lifting his water glass and gulping down a third of it.

Eww!

If this man really has drunk urine, I’m seriously going to rethink finding him attractive. He must see the look of revulsion on my face because he grins.

Leaning over, he takes his napkin and wipes ketchup off the corner of my mouth before admitting the truth. “Don’t worry; I’ve never actually drunk piss.

Not even during a drunken game of dare at university.”

I smile and return to my perfectly cooked hamburger. We eat in comfortable

silence for several minutes until a knock on the door startles me again. The man stands up and places a gentle, calming hand on my shoulder. But when I look up, he’s staring down at me with a dark expression.

I watch as he yanks open the door, grabs the silver tray from the waiter, and then slams the door shut in the waiter’s face. When he turns back around, his face is clear of emotion—a placid mask.

The pendulum swing of his emotions leaves me feeling unmoored and

insecure. Even though none of his anger seems to be directed at me personally, it’s unsettling to witness. After watching him this entire evening, one thing seems to be clear: he has no desire to be here. Then why is he?

“They better have made it correctly.” He places the large strawberry milkshake in front of me and moves his beer to the other side of the table.

“Thank you.” I reach out and take hold of the tall cold glass. A white straw

pokes out of a watery pale pink liquid. Taking a large sip, I look up to see him watching me with a furrowed brow.

“It’s delicious,” I lie, not wanting this man to know it’s possibly the worst milkshake I have ever had. He doesn’t need another reason to be more annoyed

than he already is, and I don’t want to risk that he’ll start taking it out on me

— physically.

“It fucking better be,” he grumbles, taking his seat next to me once again and going back to his meal.

The supposed milkshake tastes like they used frozen yogurt instead of ice cream and fat-free milk. It is nothing like the extra thick ones with their generous helpings of whipped cream on top that I used to get at the diner back home. Again, I try to brush thoughts of the past aside and live in the moment.

“Here, you can have mine.” The man places his small container of ketchup

next to my plate. “I prefer oil and vinegar.”

“Thank you,” I reply, and find myself commenting, “That’s very British.”

“I went to Cambridge,” he tells me. “And then spent several years working in London.”

“My cousin went there,” I tell him softly, my heart suddenly aching for my

family.

Do they even realize I’m missing?

Are they looking for me?

Grabbing the milkshake, I take another large sip, ignoring the watery flavor

as I swallow and try to push down the tightness that has spread into my throat.

Over the past weeks, I have deliberately avoided asking myself these questions, knowing it would leave me slipping into despair. Something I have to avoid at all costs if I have any hope of surviving, of escaping.

“What was your favorite thing about Paris?”

“Paris?” I ask, staring down at my half-finished meal.

The man’s question startles me; I almost forgot I had ever been to Paris. I had barely begun exploring the city when my nightmare began.

“Yes, Paris. What did you enjoy most while you were there?”

I look over to see his face full of genuine interest.

“The croissants,” I tell him, grinning slightly—remembering the crisp, flaky, buttery croissants we had our first morning and how they melted in your mouth.

“You sound like my little sister,” he tells me, and a grin flits across his face.

“You have a sister?” I find myself asking. How could this man possibly be here in a brothel buying women and have a younger sister at home?

“Yes,” he answers with a finality that doesn’t allow for any further questions; instead, he redirects the conversation with one of his own. “Did you get to the Louvre?”

Having taken another bite, I simply nod my head in answer.

Janice and I had braved the insane line at the Louvre to catch a glimpse of

the famous paintings we had only ever seen in our art history textbooks.

“What did you think?”

“Seeing the Mona Lisa was a little anticlimactic,” I admit, nibbling on another fry.

“It is, isn’t it!” he exclaims, putting his glass back down on the table with a

resounding thud.

I can’t help but smile at his overly enthusiastic response about something so mundane.

“It’s only worth the visit if you do a private tour,” he adds, and then he begins telling me all about his last visit. It sounds like he saw a lot more of what the museum has to offer than I did. My heart skips a beat when he casually remarks, “I’ll take you sometime.”

A swell of hope fills me, but then reality crushes it. People say things they don’t really mean all the time. I need to focus on our conversation here in the moment, not what could be in the future.

The man is clearly intelligent and cultured, knowing all about the artists, the architecture, and the history of the Louvre itself. After going weeks without having anyone to talk to, our conversation is oddly comforting. I find myself asking him questions, wanting to know more about him and his interests. We segue into other topics, such as our favorite films, foods, and his favorite American microbreweries—one in Vermont in particular. Although he avoids anything too personal, like his name, he answers me and seems just as interested in keeping the conversation flowing.

I’m struck suddenly by how oddly date-like our dinner has become, and even