I was getting lost in the Louvre when I found a different sort of artwork. Gorgeous, French, leather jacket, sideburns, a Jean Paul Belmondo type or “type,” as they say there. He put my hand on his white t-shirt. “See how my heart beats for you,” he said after introducing himself as “Jean Jaques…um, Jeff.”

Heeding the repeated announcement over the intercom, I asked, clutching my Marc Jacobs clutch, “are you a pick pocket?”

“No,” he said. We were in Napoleon’s apartments. Oddly enough, in a room empty of other visitors. Musty smell. Faint sunlight sliding through the windows. And patterns, gilded columns, muraled ceilings, red flowers with filigreed leaves nesting on blue scallops. Who could think in all those swirls?

We chatted a little. In French. He liked my outfit, my hair, the way I moved. I was sexy, according to him.

“I want you,” he said. “Do you want me?”

I didn’t know these were for sale in the museum gift shop.

I considered. He was overly affectionate. “Do you want a green card?” I asked.

No, he didn’t.

“Do you have your own room?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, feeling uncomfortable but interested.

He made me an offer.  I would text him and he’d come to my hotel.

I let him kiss me so I could say I’d been kissed in the Louvre.  I told him I didn’t like his tongue in my ear.

I didn’t see him again.  I didn’t want a personal Waterloo.