"...Paris, you had to acknowledge, was crawling with gorgeous men, and let’s face it, despite all of the blah-blah-blah about culture and language and cuisine
and gastronomy and…it was the cute, artsy boys with brooding eyes and messy hair and three-quarter-length coats and fabulous cheekbones that many a girl arrived for. But these, these cheekbones! These particular ones! They were works of art. Chefs-d’oeuvre.
It was as if they had been sculpted by one of the masters. One of the better masters. They should, she declared, be on display somewhere, a place where millions of women could come and queue up and buy tickets to see and marvel at the fact that, yes, there really was a set of living, breathing cheekbones as magnificent as these, as his. He should be in a museum or something. Yes, that was it. A museum. The Louvre. That’s where he should be, she decided. The Louvre. I’m writing a letter to the curator..."