On a sunny morning four months after I move to Paris, I’m just leaving a cafe that I frequent every Thursday morning. I have a bag of croissants and a black coffee in my hand, and my plan is to take them to the park before I have to work. A few stolen moments of peace and nature before a four-year-old uses me as a human jungle gym. On Thursdays Henry has his Spanish and maths lessons with a snotty tutor who always looks like he’s been sniffing sour cheese. I think he’s too young, but his mother is raising a prime minister, as she tells me. Far be it from me to curb young ambition.

I’ve just pushed through the door of the cafe and stepped out onto the sidewalk when I look up and there he is. A jolt runs through me and I stop abruptly. I see his face everywhere nowadays. Last week I stepped off the train and he was right there on the back of a bench, smiling at me. There are posters of him all over the city and in store windows. But right now, he’s standing on the sidewalk looking at me. I see someone, a woman, turn her head to look at him as she passes. Something crosses her face and she nudges her friend. They shake their heads like it couldn’t possibly be the David Lisey. He’s still just David, my David. Petra’s David, I correct myself. I threw off love like it was a blanket in the middle of summer. Irritating, stifling.

I say his name as someone bumps into the back of me. I stumble forward. For a moment I think David is going to step forward to catch me, but he stops himself. I’m fine anyway, just a little jostle. He’s wearing a beanie—that does something to my heart.

“Hello, Yara.”

I think that’s what he always says when he shows up like this. Hello, Yara. Just another day of running into you.

“What are you doing here?” I look around like I’m expecting someone else. Maybe Petra. What would I do if I saw Petra? Shady ass cow. I’d slam her damn face into the sidewalk.

“You know why I’m here,” he says softly.

I nod. The business of divorce. Yes. Solemn, but necessary.

“Did you bring the paperwork?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.

“No.”

I stare at him, confused. The fuck?

We stay like that for a few minutes, just staring and being confused. I think he’s playing games with me, just showing up like this every few months with no explanation. People walk around us, but neither one of us moves.

Finally he says. “Would you like to get a drink?”

“It’s nine o’clock in the morning.” And then I add, “I have to work.”

“Later,” he says. “When you’re done.” The shade on his jaw is dark. He hasn’t shaved in at least a week. He looks like the first time I saw him, when he pulled the splinter from my finger.

“Okay.”

“Where?” he asks.

“I know a place.” I rattle off an address and I know he’ll remember it. He’s like that. You only have to say something once.

“Is Petra here?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “She’s…in Los Angeles.”

What was that on his face? Regret? I don’t know him well enough anymore. He has new expressions. I wonder if Petra knows we’re still married? If he’s sneaking off to get this sorted out without her knowledge.

“Does she know about…?”

“Yes,” he says quickly.

“Okay,” I say, relieved. “Okay.”

“I have to get to work,” I say.

He doesn’t move as I walk past him. His eyes are soft as they watch me and then he slips on his sunglasses. I turn around just as I pass him and he turns too. We’re just inches apart and I can see myself reflected in the blue/green of his lenses. I look scared, a deep line etched between my eyebrows. And I am scared about why he came all this way when he could have just slipped the papers in the post. There are better ways to divorce someone than showing up every few months out of the blue. And how does he find me? That is the fucking question of the hour, isn’t it? I’ll have to remember to ask, won’t I?

“David,” I say softly, as I cross the street. “David is here, in Paris.”

It’s been a long time since I allowed myself to say his name freely without the pain attached.

A few blocks down the street there is a gypsy woman standing with her back to a wall. She’s holding a baby against her chest and her fingernails are black like she’s been digging in the dirt. She stares at me through hooded eyes as I pass her. The baby is no more than a few weeks old and it wails in that thin way new babies do. Celine has told me not to give them money, but I can’t help it. I pull the spare euros from the bottom of my bag and walk them over to her. She doesn’t take her eyes from my face as I drop them into the paper coffee cup at her feet. I am kneeling in front of her, trying to ignore the smell of incense and body odor when I see that she has written numbers on the cup, scribbled in blue pen. I stare at the numbers, a tingling sensation sliding up my back like an invisible hand. 49. Why has this number shown up again on the same day David did? Is it a sign? A strange coincidence. I point to the number and ask, “Qu’est-ce que cela signifie?

What does that mean?

She gives me a strange look and I realize I probably should have asked: What does this mean?

“This number means something to you?” she asks in a strange accent.

I stand up so that we’re on eye level. The baby has stopped crying. It’s latched onto her breast and is making noises as it eats.

“Yes,” I say. I’m not sure how much to tell her.

“Then I write it for you,” she nods, “this morning.”

I stare at the cup and try not to cry. Was the universe trying to send me a message? God? I don’t believe in God. David used to tell me that not believing in God was a defense mechanism against human suffering. It’s easier to say nothing exists than to say something exists and He just lets us suffer.

I wonder if this woman, who is reduced to begging for money with her infant clutched in her arms, believes in God? I don’t know how to ask her, so I stare into her eyes and try to understand. The baby falls off her breast asleep; the smooth skin of its cheek has a line of milk where it ran out of its mouth. I try not to look at her puckered nipple, but it’s right there on display.

“I have to go,” I say, as if she cares. I turn and walk away.

“This number,” she calls after me, “be careful of it.” I wonder if her warning would be different had I not given her four of my euros. Would she have told me the number meant nothing? Would she have cursed me with it? Maybe I am already cursed.

I am already walking away. I lift a hand to indicate I heard her. I would, I would be careful. But that number is like splattering fat. It rises up every now and again to sting me.