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She watched him, and he never even knew. He was supposed to be The World’s Greatest Detective, but he never once suspected he was still in her sights.
Once she’d realized he’d never let her kill the clown, that his precious justice meant more than her love, she’d left Gotham for Paris. She booked a room for extended stay at the La Bristol, and spent her mornings with croissant and noisette, her evenings dining at Arpege and dancing at Chez Moune. And there were men, of course; Parisian men would line around the block for a dance and a drink with the American with hair of fire and the wit to match. But it was never more than a dance, a wink, a flirtatious promise unfulfilled. Her heart had been lost in an explosion in Gotham.
Along with the coffee and the pastry, her morning was accompanied by a copy of the Gotham Gazette. It hadn’t been easy to find a journal revendeur that carried an American paper, even one as reputable as the Gazette; nevertheless, she had scoured the streets and alleys in search of one. Upon finding it, she promised the vendor’s son twenty francs a day to deliver a copy to her hotel every morning. The child had delivered without fail, and she pored over the headlines, the police blotters, the society and culture pages, piecing the facts and clues of her love’s life together like a baroque puzzle.
Paris became routine after a year. The men were no longer interesting; the noisette no longer sweet. So she packed what bags she had and flew into Coast City, then Keystone, then Central. She considered visiting Metropolis—The City of Tommorow!, or so the tourism board endlessly touted—but her love’s best friend lived there, and she knew she would be ferreted out. Better, instead, to stay just out of reach, in cities that bustled and hummed, but didn’t stop to listen, or look. Cities that sped by, or flew overhead on magic wishing rings.
Now that she was in the states, keeping tabs on him was easier than ever. The cable news networks were filled with breathless, histrionic recounts of the hero’s exploits, and the the entertainment news channels fell over themselves to report on the latest faux pas of Gotham’s favorite man-child. Any time, day or night, she could just turn on the television and catch a glimpse of that handsome chin, or a hint of those smoldering eyes.
She could be with him, even if she could never see him again.
She could still love him, even if she could never love anyone.