Paris is always very romantic.

Paris, last night. A few blocks from the Arc de Triomphe. We don’t know their names, and we don’t need to. He is in a black hooded jacket. She is blonde, with glasses, wrapped in a dark green shawl. On the small round marble table: two glasses, an ashtray, a bottle of water. That’s all. Behind them, the city is doing what Paris has always done. It is burning. Two fires glow orange at both ends of the boulevard. Smoke rises slow. Silhouettes walk quickly on the wet pavement. On the glass behind them, the flames reflect like a second sunset. It looks like a movie scene. But it was just another night in October. And they? They stayed. He leans back, takes a sip. She listens. They talk quietly, as if the rest of the world has been muted. Not out of indifference. Not out of naivety. But out of a very old, very Parisian form of resistance: the decision that your evening, your ritual, your person across the table, is worth more than all the noise outside. They are not unaware tourists. They are Paris itself. They know Paris burns and is reborn every ten years. Governments fall, streets are closed, barricades go up and down. But the little bistro tables always stay exactly where they are. That is the real image from last night near the Arc. Not the fires. Not the bangers. But two people choosing to remain seated, close, protecting a moment of peace. Because in the end, when the street gets hot and the world feels uncertain, the only thing that truly matters is who you are sharing your drink with. This is Paris. This is life, continuing.