Paris. Early espressos over second-hand Shakespeare. We drank champagne on a sunny Montmarte terrace. Notre-Dame bells and five rolls of Kodak Portra 400. I played a lazy Chopin on a street piano and wished for the fingers of someone with more commitment. We spent the afternoon at Monet’s lilies. He found the blackest, deepest dimension, the reflections of willow trees in the water’s edge, and declared it his. This could have been my city.