Picture this.

You are sitting alone, quite content, at a table no bigger than a dinner plate, An elderly waiter in a white apron, napkin draped over his forearm, is bringing your second café au lait. A brioche awaits on a saucer, butter melting goldenly. You lavish on it the darker gold of honey. At your feet, sparrows and pigeons quarrel over fallen crumbs among the new-washed cobblestones.

The early morning sun dances on the wavelets of the Seine. In the distance, the Eiffel Tower points towards a sky of pearly blue.

You enjoy the mild sense of dislocation, the floating feeling you get when you travel. You've left quotidian cares behind. No one knows you, no one expects you to behave in a certain way. You are free to reimagine yourself in any way you please. You revel in the newness, the unfamiliarity of everything. You realize that there is more than one way to do things well, including how you live your life.

You are in charity with the whole world, and with yourself. Only one thing is needed, you feel, to make all perfect: someone to share the experience. Someone who can see the world through your eyes but also teach you a thing or two. You close your eyes lightly, letting the gentle sun paint soft colors on the lids.

Just then, you sense rather than hear someone sit down at the tiny table next to yours, and you hear a voice you've only heard in dreams before. "Bonjour," says the voice. "And isn't it a perfect day for dreaming?"