Season lived, undecided, and as trees of the riverbank bloomed and showed with spreading buds, a cold rain fell from low-ceiling clouds in sky. Together, they walked the streets, crossing river over century bridges that spanned its course looking down on budded banks and rain-dappled face of the Seine.
The city was not the same as in stories they had read. No living place is, and that is part of the romance, to learn beyond image of ideal and discover the living truth it is.
With that, they wandered in the rain through white face stone arranged in grand design, coming upon the pockets and color of gardens in beginning break harbored amongst the white stone and copper roofs and sight of ark rising upon island in the river—its roof and restoration still in work—and metal tower rising somewhere beyond sight, sheltered in arrange of urban maze.
When rains strengthened and wind blew, they turned indoors, holding in cafes imagined as harbingers for authors of future renown, but were mostly filled with idlers and dreamers who so often are the same: those with grand design and dream of a great novel they, secretly, know will never be written; but they held to the dream all the same, afraid to write the first sentence for—should dream ever be dared—it opens possibility for failure.
A dream never dared, is a dream undefiled; and to idealists, sometimes that is all they really want.
But Ryan dared, and through the rains, he wrote. Some days well, and others less so; but he made practice and habit, persistent refinement, in pursuit of his Dream.
As Ryan wrote, Emma read, entering into own mind and world, a world of city where they traveled.
Days before, in different café, she read of the author’s own mind, how he wrote of stranger across room, inspired by her sight; creating a fiction life-story of witness to another in living present, writing fast before all was lost; and when attentions rose from page, he found that she was gone.
“…the story was finished and I was very tired. I read the last paragraph and then I looked up and looked for the girl and she had gone. I hope she’s gone with a good man, I thought. But I felt sad.”
In reading of the story, she broke from page to watch him as he wrote, focus rare-rising from page, but when it did, it fixed only upon her; and the persistence of his pattern left her warmed in spirit’s blush.
She read in the mornings, and mid-day when he wrote, and in evening when sky changed and she and room cooled before warming in made love.
She never asked what he was writing, knowing he would share if it was good, and as he wrote a showing in his mind, she finished the book of another’s history.
“There is never an ending in Paris and the memory of each person who has lived in it differs from that of any other…Paris was always worth it and you received return for whatever you brought to it. But this is how Paris was in the early days when we were very poor and very happy.”
Not all of the story was beautiful. Not all of the life was perfect, but it was told in honest way that made its own beauty.
She watched as he wrote, his living moment in a dream through travel in destination and impersonation—emulation of an experience he had always dreamed to live—and, having read, she understood the dream.
The rain softened. Sensing from sound, Ryan broke, his eyes rising to find of Emma’s waiting gaze. They returned to the streets, unnoticed strangers in a city of hopes and dreams and love.
It was a moveable feast, and in the afternoon, they dined over late lunch that carried them into the eve; and when harder rains returned, they held to their room, reading and writing, until storm ran course, departed, and sky restored to a lover’s blue.
Beneath the blue, they remained in room looking out over the white stone fronts, and shingled and green copper tops, of the city as they made characters—imagining dreams and stories and destinies—of passing strangers beneath.
In the eve, she waited for him covered only in cream hue of open-window drape as gold of sun fell beneath silhouette of shingle and copper frame as sky changed, melting into soul-fires before ceding to city-light and appearing stars.
She waited, inviting for his touch, kiss, and caress.
They made love across sky’s soul-change and into the light of stars and dreams then laid after in the cool air of open window, a difference heart discerned.
The seasons were decided. Gone was winter. Spring arrived. The world was changed, difference sensed in touching-caress of air; promise and beginning to color, growth—fruition—of a true and living dream.