SOUTH SIDE OF PARIS
There was a small layer of powder on the ground. The three-story, wood building porches were mono-toned and brown, but still pretty and creaked in the quiet winter.
He dashed ahead of me faster than I could see, turning a corner while I was still on the top floor of a porch I couldn’t get down from. The geography seemed off; it reminded me of Paris more than Chicago, but I still knew where I was. Suddenly I was on the ground, in a small, local cafe.
He was bent over a bowl of steaming soup and talking with a friend. A huge sigh of relief came over me at this moment. I sat down and grazed the menu, caught my breath and started to listen.
ESPRESSO WITH A CHOCOLATE CROISSANT
The only thing I remember was the tiny coffee shop in a random corner in Paris I always seem to find in my dreams. The same waitress is always there, a larger build with frizzy brown hair and big brown eyes. I apologized for my lack of french, and ordered the quickest thing I could think of; an espresso with a chocolate croissant. I paid with the few euros I found in my wallet, not remembering how they got there, or how I ended up in Paris again.
I don’t know if this woman exists, but I’m always grateful for her hospitality.
I squinted looking up at the jagged edges where stained glass once was. The cracking under shoes made an echoing sound as I stepped carefully around the room. The structure of the dome held its place three stories above. The sun shifting in the sky made the dome glimmer with a waterfall of light.
I walked around the maze of concrete fountains with the others, which weren’t running, but rather small baths of water calmly sitting. We couldn’t help ourselves but look up at the historical stained glass, what was left of it.
He called out for me across the room, causing me to blink, look forward, and leave.