Paris

We stumbled upon the bistro with tired legs and empty stomachs. It was easy to miss, nestled at the far corner of a crowded cobblestone square. I surveyed the room as the hostess led us up a narrow spiral staircase. Every seat was taken. French chatter filled the restaurant, bouncing off of walls that were hung with antique mirrors and impressionist paintings.

We took our seats at a two-person table in the window and requested a bottle of the house red. Warm summer air and 9pm sunlight cascaded through the open windows. Parisians dined in the square below as the waitress poured our wine. 

The first sip tasted sweeter after a day spent wandering the city, escaping the heat at every café that caught our attention. We chatted about the months ahead over escargot and family over chocolate soufflé; conversation about a real world that was an ocean away, and felt further from our small corner of the hidden bistro. Sunlight turned to candlelight as the room slowly emptied. A violin’s melody filled the space of the quieting chatter until we were the last people in the restaurant. 

The streets were moonlit on our walk home. We bought a padlock from a street merchant and searched for a place to hang it. We danced down the sidewalk, dizzy from too much wine and too little sleep, feeling further from the world with every twirl.