I wake up and stretch. Henry is beside me, shotgun in hand. This was supposed to be our honeymoon. “Did you sleep well?” he asks. He obviously did not. He was on duty. He hands me the gun and goes to get dressed. Our Parisian hotel is among one of last safe places – at least, for now. There are undead lurking anywhere and everywhere, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t enjoy our honeymoon…right?
The bakery is now deserted, but we manage to find a
couple croissants and even some semi-fresh fruit in what is left of the
refrigerator. Even though its summer, we wear clothing head-to-toe, making sure
all skin is covered, lest we are jumped by a flesh-eating Frenchman. Or
Frenchwoman. Or even child, for that matter.
Around noon, we stop by the Eiffel Tower, the place
where we first met. We’re about to kiss, expose the skin on our face, when
------ BLAST!
Henry shot a zombie that was about to make lunch of
me.
This made me laugh. Nothing says "I love you" like defending one's loved one from the walking dead.
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