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\pa.lɛ ʁwa.jal\

“… and what about us?”, he asked. “I have Paris”, she answered meditatively.

In a minute she finished her espresso and was ready to leave. It was exactly the same day as a year ago when they met under the arches of Palais Royal in a tiny space of the Cafe Kitsuné. As back then, she was screwing up her eyes to hide from the bright Sun rays and her shoulders and collarbones were glowing as a silk-satin. He knew they might accidently meet again. Somewhere on the street or at the Sunday flea-market they both loved. But it was the last time he could share this We moment with her.