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Time to slay your own dragons, ladies.

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My first kiss was an unwanted one. I was seven years old when a boy named David pushed me up against the wall outside our apartment building. Forcing his mouth on mine, his breath, hot and fusty, something sickly sweet like apple juice and milk gone sour in his gut that made me squirm. I don’t remember seeing him as I ran with my brother and the other neighborhood kids through the empty lot next door, scrabbling over the toppled trees, slick with moss, tripping over the bramble of twigs and woodsy decay, but he must have been there, his knees as scratched and muddied as ours, before he caught up with me in the driveway that ran alongside and behind the apartment building. 
As usual I’d tagged along in my older brother’s shadow. Tag, hide and seek, cowboys and indians, the games kids used to play. Outdoors, up and down the streets, no watchful mommies on red alert. Ignoring our mothers’ warnings—don’t go into the woods, don’t go into the woods—we went into the woods, woods that in fact …

Dreaming of France: Tour de France hits the Louvre?

Those don't look like official cycling shorts to me.
Just a group of girls following their tour leader.
Ah, oui! Time for a photo!
If only they had French berets.

I can't decide which of these photos to put on my Instagram. 
Any suggestions?
Connecting with Dreaming of France

Comments

  1. I can't imagine riding a bike in such a short dress, but maybe I'll learn when I move to France. I love everything about these images. It definitely makes me want to be there, but I'm still not going to ride a bike in Paris -- that looks like suicide.
    Thanks for playing along with Dreaming of France. Here’s my Dreaming of France meme

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