
Walking through the 12th arrondissement, I find the café on the Rue de Charenton. She’s usually late so I settle in. I resist the urge to look at my phone and instead order a coffee in broken French and watch a series of small dogs walk up and pee on the same small tree. “Hey.” I turn in my chair and see beautiful tan skin. I take it all in quickly: long black hair, dark circular eyes, almond shaped mouth, in a small frame. “I thought you’d be late,” I blurt out. She smiles and pulls out the other chair. “Is that how you remember me?” She has the same …