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Ran into this gal—name’s Candy, swear to god. She’s leanin’ on a lamppost, smokin’ a cig like it’s 1940s noir. I’m like, “Hey, you good?” She laughs—dry, sarcastic—says, “Good as a dollar gets ya.” Reminds me of that movie line, “What do you do?”—all mysterious. Little known fact, bud—back in the 1800s, they called ‘em “soiled doves.” Poetic, right? Screw that, it’s sad! These girls got stories—Candy’s got a kid, works nights. Breaks my damn heart.

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But then, my phone buzzes. It’s work. Ugh. My boss wants some last-minute data. I’m like, “Seriously? I’m in France!” But I can’t ignore it. So, I pull out my laptop, right there on the bench. I’m typing away, trying to focus, but it’s hard with all the noise around me. Kids laughing, street musicians playing. I’m torn between work and soaking in the vibe.

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