France wonders if they really knew him, that they would understand. If they'd give more than just a "see you round" and then leave. They don't know how much more he's trying to give.

He's known for his promiscuity, he knows, but sex honestly isn't even at the heart of it (though it is a significant plus).

He just wants them to know how it feels to be loved, genuinely, authentically, agonizingly loved. How it feels to have a heart beating next to yours, bursting with passion and flame. He wants them to know...

"Thanks for the night," they wink, and they're gone. He knows that they think that that's just how he is. But they don't know. He means every word, every kiss in the dark. It's all true.

He tries to be infectious, to open up their eyes to what a beautiful thing it is, to love. He doesn't understand how they can't feel it, what pulsates through every fiber of his being. How can they not see?

But he's France. He'll do anything for a feel, they all know.

He is so alone.