In the evening Tom sent me a text that read: “Une bouteille de vin rouge et un homme mouille te esperent,” and then, two minutes later, a text that read: “I mean attendent,” both of which make up the kind of invitation a girl just doesn’t turn down.

He was fresh from his ride-along with the C-O-P-S in the South Bronx, you know you want to sing it: Bad boys, bad boys, whatcha gonna do, whatchoo gonna do when they come for you. I wanted to hear stories of him hanging on tight as they wailed down dark streets in pursuit of a drug kingpin, of him shouting “Officer down, I repeat, officer down, over!” into the police radio, but all he’d done was put on the body armor to sit in the back seat while they talked about girls and pulled over three dudes to hand out traffic tickets. Still, I like the image of the boy wandering the streets of the South Bronx with his reporter’s notebook and his press hat low over his eyes; one of these days he is going to meet a hooker with a heart of gold.

At the Film Forum the queue for “Masculin Féminin” was all mussed-up hair and dark-rimmed glasses down the block. Inside, beyond silhouetted heads like mushrooms, Paris in the Sixties, Chantal Goya’s dark eyes, teasing, evasive.

Me, Europe calls. I am moving to a house with bare walls, upon which I am going to project movies large. I am going to be a yéyé girl, yé-yé you heard it here first.