Plans and goals and outcomes

It’s been hours, you say. I have blisters on my blisters. I know we will find one, I say, as we amble through the labyrinth of streets along the Seine. Men in chapeaus play Piaf on the accordion and couples bound by navy-blue scarves kiss in corners and tourists lugging suitcases over the pavement gawk at wrought-iron balconies, gargoyles that are unfazed by the city’s beauty, scowling at us from their rooftop perch. I can see it in my mind, I say. You roll your eyes. We were like this: me, grandiose, you rational. Me up in the air, you on the earth, our architect of plans and goals and outcomes. Who would I be without you? We turn left, walk through an archway and there it was: the pastry shop of my imagination overlooking a perfect Paris garden. Are you happy now? you ask. I was.