In the world of blossoming romance, some clichés are inevitable: the trick was not to fall for the embarrassing ones.

The lovers' backdrop could have been lifted from a Harlequin romance. The scene? A metropolitan city: in the centre, a river; in the distance, sunset; up above, stars.

So far, so cheesy.

The lovers strolled along the Left Bank, hand not quite in hand, fingers merely brushing. At a certain distance, and in a certain light, they looked almost identical, two halves of one whole: their builds light and slender, with the slightest hint of a curve about the hips, their hair long and dark, their clothing casual denim. Closer, and significant differences emerged: the one on the right was the taller of the two, her hair curling, wild, unruly. Her bosom was more pronounced, and her hips wider; was it because she was older than her companion, or was it simply nature's design?

But despite her more womanly frame, the one on the left was considerably more striking – or at least, more exotic. She was mixed race, but Caucasian eyes would have deemed her otherwise; a glance at her slanted eyes, her rounded, childish nose, and small, doll-like lips would have been enough to dismiss her as Chinese, Japanese, Vietnamese or Thai.

Her father was in fact Korean; and it was to escape him that the couple had taken to promenading along the Seine, though they generally stuck to the tourist traps, where the vendors at least spoke English.

"What are you thinking?" asked the older girl, looking out onto the river.

The younger girl was silent, contemplative. She was thinking about the locals, and she was thinking about the language, and she was thinking about home, where a boyfriend who spoke the language with something approaching fluency waited for her. She was thinking of her friends and family and her comfortable, conforming niche in the world. She was thinking about the GCSE results she'd return for in August, and the path her life will take after it. She sneaked a glance at the girl – the woman – beside her, and thought: What will we do when I go back to London? What place is there for her, for us? What 'us' is there, and can it survive? And if it could – is it worth it?

"Nothing," she replied, still staring determinedly out at the wavering waters. In the distance was a shadow, growing closer; a boat. A tourist trap, naturally; probably marketed as something like, "Spend a summer of love, on the river of love, in the city of love," or some other nonsense that romantically-inclined tourists fell for.

"Are you sure?" asked the older girl again, to which the younger girl shrugged.

"I don't believe you," she said, although her tone was light, and she kept pace with her companion.

Suddenly, the younger girl – la plus jeune fille in the local lingo – stopped. So did the curly-haired brunette. As one, their gazes slid from the river and onto each other.

"I was thinking," the younger girl began, "about my boyfriend."

The other woman's face was impassive.

"I was thinking," the younger girl continued, "about how I – about why I started dating him."

"Oh." It was an empty, emotionless sound.

"I did it because I was scared people would think I was frigid."

"Oh?" Her eyes were suddenly warmer.

"Yes. The thing is, I'm not – I wasn't attracted to anyone, so I thought – and I'm not to him, but I – but he was a good friend, and he liked me, and all the other girls fancied the pants off him—"

"Literally?" the older brunette teased.

"Sometimes," the younger girl admitted, "and he asked me out, and I said yes, and we slept together, but it wasn't – and I didn't – and he—" she stammered to a halt and sighed, running slender fingers through her sleek hair.

"The reason," she said, in a voice barely above a whisper, "that I went looking for you – the reason that I asked to come with you, well… When I saw you that night, I felt— I felt."

And that was it; she hadn't felt tingly or hot or uncomfortable or any other sort of specific emotion: the girl had just felt. It had been lust at first sight; they both knew that, or rather, they both knew that now. Love was something that had been picked up along the way.

Hesitantly, the older of the girls reached out and brushed a hand across her cheek. She couldn't disguise her body's trembling.

"Tonight?" she whispered thickly.

"I don't know."

"Angie…" She hadn't meant to beg.

"I'm scared." Instinctively, Angie's hand reached down to clutch her companion's desperately. "I'm scared of what will happen if we—"

"Nothing bad will happen," she assured her.

"I mean I'm scared of what will happen to me."

"To you?"

Angie nodded, and turned away from the Seine so that she was facing her… friend completely.

"I'm scared of what it'll make me; of what I'll become if I… Because there's a difference between feeling something and acting on it."

"But you've already acted on it: you're here. With me."

"That's not the same."

"Isn't it? Huh, I guess I not. —And what do you mean anyway, about 'what it'll make you'? You've already said that you've never liked boys."

Angie looked genuinely surprised. "And what does homophobia have to do with anything? This is a matter of what's right and what's wrong."

"Which, funnily enough, is kinda what I'm getting at."

"No no no, I didn't mean it like that! All I meant was—well… I don't want to hurt him," she whispered, suddenly quiet.

"I do love him," she whispered softly still; "not romantically or sexually or anything like that, but I don't want to hurt him: he loves me, I know he does— but I want you so much!"

The other girl's face softened, and on an impulse she reached out for her – this poor, trembling girl, this little London angel – she reached out for the beautiful girl; held her tight and stroked her hair and kissed what skin she could find amidst lies like, "It's okay," and "I understand," and finally, most painful of all the words, this final promise: "I'll wait." Privately, she thought Angie's horror and self-disgust was living proof that conventional morality was overrated: she refused to consummate an affair that burned them both and consumed them whole out of respect for a relationship – a meaningless, purely convenient relationship – with a boy she didn't actually love.

Angie shifted in her arms; she felt her smaller hands reaching up to brush gratefully across her shoulders before knotting behind her neck. She felt Angie's nose pressing into her neck; felt her lashes flickering across her skin. She had never considered Angie as delicate or fragile, although her appearance might suggest otherwise; even so, she pulled her closer still, rubbing her shoulder blades soothingly.

"When will you tell your parents?" she asked her as the sky darkened but a little more. "Your dad thinks we're friends who happen to share a hotel room!"

"A hotel room with two beds," Angie pointed out stiffly.

"Two beds that could and have been pushed together?"

Angie suddenly turned pensive.

"When I was younger," she said slowly, "me and my best friend were always sleeping over at each others' house. We always shared my bed when she stayed at mine. Dad knows about that; that's probably why it doesn't bother him. And besides, you just assume that your kids are straight, don't you?"

"I don't have any kids, unfortunately," pointed out the older girl, "so I really couldn't say."

A bench loomed out before them; a black-painted, cast-iron bench, and even though it was getting late, and they ought to be getting back, the couple sat down on it. In the distance, the last of the sun's reddening rays winked at them; up above, the stars were steadily brightening.

"Do you want to know something?" Angie murmured as they watched the boat with the romantic dinner-on-the-river-cum-tour float by.

"What?"

"I don't think I've ever been so happy before as I am now, sitting here with you."

"I thought you said you were scared," the brunette reminded her, although there was a smile in her voice.

"I was, I was; but I'm not any more. Now I feel… content. Now I feel strong, and secure, like— like I can take anything the world throws at me, so long as I'm with you."

The girl nodded, and slipped an arm about Angie's shoulders.

"So do I," she said.

On the horizon, the red glow finally faded; up above, stars glittered.

Some clichés are inevitable: the trick was not to fall for the embarrassing ones.