Tonight, dinner is a pot of small roasted potatoes purchased at a street market near Sacre Couer, a wedge of brie, the tastiest pear you’ve ever eaten (not pictured, quickly consumed), and the last of a bottle of beaujolais (because drinking wine on a park bench in the evening is perfectly acceptable in Paris). Whilst happily watching someone else’s children spin cartwheels and play variations of the touch-and-go games you played as a child, a question arises: At what point does one stop appearing like a respectably-aimless youth and start appearing like a creepily-unattached adult (i.e. pedophile)? You’re fairly certain that your dirty Converse All-Stars qualify you as the former but pull down your sunglasses to conceal your ever-expanding crow’s feet should anyone venture close enough to check.
As the sun retreats, your hands stiffen, too cold now to turn the pages of the book you’ve been reading intermittently for weeks. You’re vaguely aware that you should appreciate this moment, this scene, the rarity of being content in your own company, and – for once – not looking forward to someplace else.
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