Performing on the bridge behind Notre Dame, the singer wears a flat cap while his friend plays the saxophone. I linger beside the companion I met while sharing a table for lunch. She’s alone in Paris, without any family to consider. Mine are at home, seething at the way I’m spending my pension on travelling the world. The musicians finish their song and I join the applause. The sun pierces the filigree clouds and a breeze makes me hug my elbows. I wonder whether the singers pay a fee to perform on the bitumen. Displayed on an open suitcase are CDs for sale and the saxophone player beckons me over to take a closer look. While I examine the cardboard envelopes, the singer calls to the audience, asking them to make a request for the next song. I select a CD, search in my wallet for a note and hand it to the saxophone player.
‘Do you know, “I’ve got a crush on you”?’ I ask.
‘Really?’ He blinks. His green eyes should belong to a cat.
‘No,’ I accept the change he places in my hand. ‘I mean the song.’