Judy Greer

You belong here, he said, gesturing as if to take in the entirety of that town where he lived, where everyone he knew lived, smiling, happy.

And Monica could not disagree.

That is the reason why, exactly.

When eventually Monica talks to her mother about Paris, she will not even realize how completely it has slipped away from her, has become again what it was before she saw it herself, the images hazy and lucid, all at once in the way of any vivid dream.

She will sit in her mother's kitchen drinking coffee and describing the soft facades of buildings, white and gray and taupe, the faded red awnings of cafes, the boulevards and gardens and cathedrals, everything warm and inviting and unreal.

She will mention Martin only offhandedly and Elizabeth not at all.

And when her mother finally tires of feigning interest...

She will be secretly glad, relieved that the time is passing, that Paris is again becoming nothing more than a word she might see on the cover of a glossy magazine or hear on a cable travel channel, certainly not a place where she once spent a few breaths of her life.

And she will hardly remember the way the Seine sliced the city in half, a radiant, curving knife, merciless and perfect.