the streets of Paris

I have never been to Paris. There were countless plans, mountains of opportunities over the years but none of them panned out. For some reason, I did not want to go alone, even though I was in Italy on my own for a month the first time I was there. 

"It takes two to tango." I always told myself. 

We have been inside for more than four weeks now. I take some guilty pleasure from being cooped up together, which feels a lot like a family vacation in some ways. Every meal, every day is a balancing act between N and V, E and myself. We make plans. We order things, We play games. We dance in the living room to 70's songs. Our faces hover above the kitchen table, with nothing to hide. We are a tiny army. We are together. 

V is tasting new foods these days, but she makes us all close our eyes when she does it. Only she can see herself, it seems. 

N concocted a makeshift cafe on the balcony for her to get some fresh air and and sun when it peeks out. Blankets and tiny chairs can be benches, or tables or anything that V can imagine in the cramped little space. She makes pretend soup and tea, wandering out with a little tray and serving us at random moments of the day. 

Some of her favorite  dolls are customers. They sit there for hours, in silence. 

I ask her if the cafe is in Paris.

"Of course," She tells me.

I wedge a chair into the doorway, and stretch my legs for a little while. The afternoon sun is banging hard into the kitchen and I close my eyes to it. The smell of mud and gasoline drift up from the street below as I sip some imaginary coffee that V makes for me, and a real piece of chocolate.