She dreams of the romance of Paris.
Of strolling along wide boulevards
and close, secretive alleyways.
Sipping coffee in sidewalk cafes
and wine in aromatic restaurants.
Nibbling on chocolate from a specialty shop
and on each other’s necks in
stolen moments of public affection.
Standing underneath the Eiffel Tower
and looking up through the crossed ironwork.
By day, sunshine would color the city
like Impressionist paintings,
then the city would slip on sparkling jewelry
to dress up for nights.
He reminds her of how expensive
the city is supposed to be.
How crowded it is with tourists
snapping photos of the wide boulevards.
How dirty it is from all those tourists.
How rude the waiters are
because they have to put up
with the clueless tourists.
She explains that’s the reality of the place.
The frame holding the Impressionist painting,
the twisted wire hanging on the hook on the wall.
There is no point in hoping dirt does not exist,
but to accept it and move on,
choosing to appreciate the wonders.
She continues to dream of Paris,
and the colors of her dream are now brighter.
Photo by Gilad Rom (Flickr).