I first wrote this flash story four or five years ago, as a kind-of homage to Paris. Once upon a time, I would fly over there every month or so, just to soak up the atmosphere, though I haven’t visited now for nearly twenty years.

I love the plot, so had fun rewriting the story last week. I think it comes out atabout 1,100 words, about 7 or 8 minutes read time.

She might almost have stepped back thirty years. The street was familiar, but different. Opposite the metro, the dingy, one-star hotel was still going, although “strong” would have been an overstatement. In the years since their stay, it didn’t appear to have seen even the tiniest lick of paint. The boulangerie next door, however, where they had once shared fresh morning bread after a long, energetic lie-in, had fared better, not only surviving but seemingly having been refurbished not so long ago.

Her tastes were different now. More mature, more sophisticated, and feeling unashamedly hungry after leaving her hotel so early, she treated herself to a still-warm almond croissant. This would do for a petit, petit-déjeuner.

For it was early summer, and despite the chill of the dawn, the rising sun was already threatening to bake the city to a crisp. She glanced back at the entrance to the station. No, not again. It was too warm, and the carriages had been oppressive, even at this hour. Besides, ever since that first visit, she’d thought of Paris as a good “walking” city, although in those days, it had been more out of necessity than choice.

So she set off. On marche. Briskly, since although she was starting to remember the layout of the streets, she had no interest in their shops. Her unfamiliarity was not surprising. After that first time, they had never again stayed in the Thirteenth, growing more affluent and tending to use hotels that were closer to the river. By Italie, she had finished her croissant and continued north, into the Fifth.

Her surroundings now were more familiar. She had always enjoyed the atmosphere here and she imagined its youthful inhabitants, rushing now to their first lectures of the morning. But there were older residents, too, some even sharing her next destination. The vibrant street market of La Mouffe was just getting going, its vendors creating rainbows of ripe fruit, and these birds were on the lookout for their worms. Away from the openness of the boulevard, though, the tall buildings felt instantly oppressive, trapping the heat at ground level. After walking the length of the market, she ducked into the comfort of an air-conditioned café, just opened, to quench her thirst.

“Un café, s’il vous plait”, she spoke tersely to the waiter as she took a window seat.

“Do you not wish for something to eat, madame? Some breakfast, perhaps?”

His trained eye had spotted la riche touriste anglaise immediately, despite her flawless French, and it irked her. “Non, merci”, she replied, firmly. “Le café suffit.”

She drank the coffee in peace, and as she watched a pretentious cube of sugar dissolve slowly into the tiny cup, softening the drink, she pondered her next move. While she had a final destination in mind, she was in no particular hurry.

❖

Another coffee later, and she was on the move again, her plan set. As the fresh caffeine coursed through her veins, she skipped past the Pantheon, past La Sorbonne, and over to the lungs of the southern city, Luxembourg. It was cleaner these days, she mused. Resting once more by that tiny play area, she recalled the time they had brought Jack and Helen here, no more than toddlers, to placate them after a particularly gruelling day confined to their stroller. For once they played together in peace, united in this foreign land. Hard days, happy days, she smiled.

With renewed vigour, she braved the boulevard. Still famous for those riots, way back before she was even born, the street was becoming busy now as the city began its daily toil. And when she crossed Saint-Germain, the traffic was already at a standstill.

Deep now in the Latin Quarter, the pungent Seine made its presence felt. She passed that cheesy, faux-Greek taverna, whose sole claim to fame had been the destruction of vast amounts of crockery, and when she finally reached the fountain, she stopped. For the first time in years, she marvelled at its intricate beauty. Twenty more paces, and she could see the bridge.

On another day, she might have crossed here. Visited the Ile once again, enjoyed the cathedral. But today, she had a different plan, and began to walk along the quai in the other direction, into the relative quiet. It was still busy, though, and the queue of traffic coming at her over next bridge, the Pont Neuf, was relentless.

She could see the tip of the island now. They had spent hours there on that first visit, just lazing, watching the water flow past, his soft hands caressing her long, dark hair. And those endless, loving, forever kisses. There were people down there, even now, as the city yawned itself awake. Other young lovers, perhaps?

Almost at her goal, she sped on. On the other bank, the imposing palace of the Louvre came into view. No doubt the unbearable queues were already snaking their way around the pyramide. And at last, she arrived.

❖

The Pont des Arts. Her favourite bridge of them all. He had proposed to her here. Though this bridge was the newest of the river crossings, she could not remember the time before it had existed. There was something about its intricate design which suggested fragility, elegance, beauty, and of all Paris’s bridges, this one was special.

She stepped onto its decking, displaying no reaction as she passed the thousands of love locks which had appeared on the railings since her last visit. It had even made the news a few years ago, when the combined weight of these padlocks had started to threaten the integrity of the bridge itself. Instead, she walked purposefully out to the mid-point, stopped and glanced both ways.

Had it been here? She had thought she would remember the spot vividly, but now that she was actually on the bridge, the passing of time had made her memory less clear. But she was close enough.

She turned and walked to the edge of the bridge, one hand grasping its railing.

With the other, she slowly, deliberately, fished a folded kitchen towel from the front pocket of her jeans. Using both hands now, she carefully unfolded the tissue, extracting a tarnished engagement ring. Made of cheap gold, it had been all he could afford at the time. For a long moment, she studied the ring, as if awaiting the answer to an impossible question.

She held it out over the river. Then, with tears in her eyes,  she allowed it to fall.