A tourist to my heart

WE CONNECTED SO WELL THAT I OVERLOOKED THE RED FLAGS

- BY KATE MAYFIELD

ROCHE CRUCHON For The Times

I WAS JUST back in L.A. after a stint in Vancouver that saw my soon-to-be-ex-husband realizing his dreams of becoming a successful actor and hooking up with a movie star who was not me.

I was hurt, but it had always been a terrible relationship with more heartache than happiness. And now, though still licking my wounds and feeling adrift, I was relishing my newfound freedom.

I bought a cute yoga outfit, burned innumerable overpriced scented candles, began a morning ritual of walking to the local bakery for a bagel and coffee, redecorated my apartment to my taste and took a French lover.

I met him on a night that can only be described as enchanted. Spontaneously, I'd joined a group of old friends on their way to a house party in Hollywood. Crammed into a rideshare, someone passed out little yellow pills debossed with an E. I'd done ecstasy once before, and the high I felt then hadn't come anywhere close to making the low that followed worth it. I had sworn never again. But this was a new day — and a new me who wasn't deterred by anything so inconsequential as soul-crushing despair. I tucked the little yellow pill in my pocket for later.

The party was in a chic work-live space: four stories of industrial design thumping with music and packed with hipsters. My crew grabbed beers and dispersed. Walking on a balcony, I turned a corner, and there he was, tall and slender, with soulful brown eyes and a longish mop of brown hair threatening to hide them. On his lapel, he wore a little button, a heart over crossbones. "Are you a heart pirate?" I asked.

His response didn't matter. The moment he opened his mouth and a French accent came out, I didn't care what he said as long as he kept talking. It wasn't long before we were kissing. The pill in my pocket forgotten, I had found all the ecstasy I needed.