He was late coming to get me at the airport, but when he got there he traded me my weekend bag for a bag containing a croissant and a croissant and a giant raisin swirly thing. The thing is, we like a boy who cares about baked goods.

The RER ticket machines taunted us for a good many minutes while we debated if it’d just be easier to go to Marseille instead of Paris. In the city, heading toward the stairs leading out of the métro, I looked at him out of the corners of my eyes. “Go,” he said. I bounded up the steps, two at a time, into the day.

Home on rue de l’Atlas, there was yoghurt and homemade quince jam, and black coffee out of clay yoghurt cups. There was a very small fashion show highlighting corduroy pants with very fashion pockets. There was chilling out wrapped up in a Brazilian hammock.

Later, up several flights on a curving wooden staircase on rue du Buisson Saint Louis, we broke into Gab’s mum’s confiture cabinet. Squat jars, faceted jars, curved jars, fat jars, the jammy reds and thick oranges and deep yellows were labeled with blue ballpoint on small white labels. The shelves sagged, seemed to sigh contentedly. Or maybe that was me. . .

We picked Gen up from the Alliance Française and then headed to lunch at Hector’s crêpe place. We laughed at the Trapèze galette—ham, emmenthal, pineapple—and then I ordered it. Hector poured us ciders, then brought us Nutella crepes with hearts painted on them in Nutella brush strokes.

Hanging out in Paris with Gab means back streets like the sweet discovery of a secret book. There are twists, there are turns. Everything seems new and old at the same time. Unexpectedly, the gloriousness of Gérard Mulot loomed in front of us—and just too bad ’cause there we were, our little bellies full with crêpes. Later, we headed up the narrow, curving rue de la Montagne Sainte Geneviève. At Crocojazz, Gilles was pleased to see us. He opened the glass cabinets with a key tied on a cord around his neck. Gab got to go behind the counter to turn up the volume on the hi-fi. A thick glass ashtray balanced on a shelf of records. The small shop was blues and smoke.

Hector came to pick us up after, then there were coffees and a mauresque under toasty heat lamps. Gab said he was going to be late to work. He leaned back in his chair and took another drag on his cigarette.