9:13 - Me: Night in Paris, the Eiffel Tower lit up, café on a small street, where an old man with a saxophone sits on a curb. Me and you.
9:16/9:18 - Him: Under the striped overhang, café double glass doors still open, reflecting shimmery lines from the small shop across the street, while strong rich smells ease / out of the café with the passing of the waitress, the fresh batch of dough for morning cooking at the next shop over, hinting raw vapors of fine flours and grains.
9:21 - Me: Crusty French baguettes wrapped in a crisp white linen with rich thick soft butter on a small china plate are placed on the table by a gaston, named Louis.
9:31 - Me: He winks at us as he passes with a knowing look. The cool night air laces fingers with the scents flowing from the heated perfectly lit kitchen of the café.
10:08: - Him: The barista looks at a coworker as she says with a mischievous smile to suggest to him, “those two, you can see it all over them,” and continues her duties.
10:10 - Him: The walk down from the art district over the cobblestones that still line the back alleys, hiding the best shops, well worth the difficulty of you in heels.
10:15 - Me: And the tiny little bookshop tucked away in a corner showcases a multitude of delights that enrapture me, you wait patiently as I dig through literary treasures.
10:21 - Him: The pages turn, scents pass with every page as though not relating just the story, but also its long twisting history of the hands, houses, and cities its passed.
10:23 - Me: Minutes turn into an hour, than two and at the clearing of the owner’s throat, we two treasure seekers are brought back to reality that its closing time.
10:27 - Him: Sorry, have to pause, out to eat, ttys.
10:27 - Me: Paris and I can wait for you.
11:35/11:37/11:42 - Him: Closing time, a special treat to witness in itself, giving us an excuse to walk the streets, holding each other close as the cold nips at the heels, making our / way back to the streets still alive with action, though late now, the world is still open for anything, yet the call of the quieter park bench calls out more /than anything else, a bench at the end of the stair fountains, or close to the Triumph Arch, next to something that offers beauty with ambient street lights.
11:38 - Me: Let’s go.
11:54 - Me: Now, she says, hoping that the word picture being drawn will be an eventual reality.
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