Potato and meat stew, a glass of Galliac.

I watched a woman on the terrace who seemed to be talking directly into the image of a man seated inside whose image was reflected upon the window. How intimate they seemed. Perhaps it was only me. They were, of course, separated by the glass itself and, furthermore, by their respective lunch companions and, owing to my observation, condemned to remain my notion of what it is to be loved.

She is an architect with a remodeled studio in a shoebox. She slips off her heels and explains. Who knows what he does. He talks on his phones is what he does. He talks on the phone and into her image. They seem close enough to kiss. Paolo and Francesca. Dante's lovers in the whirlwind.

What do I do? What am I doing? I am drinking a glass of Galliac. I have been to the consulate. Soon, I'm going to be on a train. I'm writing this postcard; I'll be getting up in a moment; soon this will be another place I have been.

Later, I see them warming their backs against a chimney at the Louvre.

×vØ