Everything about life in Paris was exaggerated, even if it meant ending things, by guillotine. Starting with the despicable garret apartment they rented from a hag who despised everyone. She occupied the ground floor and they had to pass her and climb worn stone steps in a turret to their third floor cramped home. It was mostly dark brown exposed brick and shag, it was dismal and on cold mornings, him gone to sketch at his studio, she pondered escape. But they were in love. Plus, they had friends to visit who operated within splendid creamy palaces protected from the rabble by wrought iron gates. Indoors everything was padded and soft and anything might be happening and anyone might be there. The most famous mingled like decorations. Amuse bouche, amuse yeux! Drugs abounded. The young couple was invited everywhere. Besides, they got along better in public.
At a party a friend handed them the drug ecstasy. This was the 80s and the drug of the day. They swallowed the pills and a few hours later they wanted more. They tracked down a lot more. They found themselves outdoors, indoors, sometimes in bright daylight, other times raining and midnight. They rode the Metro and trod cobbled streets and danced to the music in their minds.
On the wane of the third night their bodies were wearying. She wanted more. He said, "No!" He won the fight. She pouted.
They slept long enough when they awoke they were beyond the cravings. Later they learned it hadn't been ecstasy. It was heroin. This was entirely shocking news but it made sense. Both were horrified by the revelation and while he felt vindicated she felt shame. "That is way too good!" They laughed, "We can never do it again".