Often I think about that afternoon in Paris. April hung down her head and spit. Umbrellas whipped about like ripped flags. My lover sulked in our flat with mac and cheese and graffitied the foggy windows with her pinkie finger. I’d had enough of enough and trudged out for a single pint, a skunky German beer, at a tiny bar, then just left. Left and a couple rights. It was on a side street I didn’t know. My phone suggested the shortcut. The rain had stopped. It was just him and me.