I’d love to be a tabletop in Paris, where food is art and life combined in one, where people gather and talk for hours. I want lovers to meet over me. I’d want to be covered in drops of candle wax and breadcrumbs and rings from the bottom of wineglasses. I would never be lonely, and I would always serve a good purpose.

Paris seemed to make good on the promise it made in every photograph of it she’d ever seen.

Paris needs no reason. Paris is its own reason.

No one gets Paris after one visit. No one.

Why Paris? Paris needs no reason. Paris is its own reason.