I wake up surrounded by Raphael.

His chest is pressed to my back, his left arm is under my head, and his right arm is wrapped around me. I don’t dare budge for fear of disrupting the sweetness of this moment. As I lie in his arms with my eyes wide open but my body still gooey and listen to his steady breathing, a realization begins to form in my mind.

For a while, I pretend everything’s fine, but my inaction allows the epiphany to take shape and grow. By the time I start shooing it away, it’s too late. The bastard has made itself comfortable at the forefront of my consciousness and is opening its mouth to say something.

I begin to sing in my head, La la la la la la. Can’t hear you, can’t hear you, can’t hear you—

Except I can. Loud and clear, every murmured word.

I’m in love.

Carefully, I lift Raphael’s arm, roll out of bed and head to the shower. I’m going to take it cold. And long.

When I return to the bedroom, wrapped into a bathrobe, Raphael is sitting on the bed, his feet on the floor and his phone in his hands.

“Bruno just texted me. He’s on standby,” he says.

Bruno is his driver.

I sit down next to him. “What does that mean, exactly?”

“That he’s having a coffee in the nearest bistro, waiting for my signal.”

“I see.”

“When do you think you’ll be ready?” he asks.

“Why?”

“So I can give Bruno a heads-up.”

“I’m going to walk,” I say.

“Don’t be silly. DCA is at least an hour’s hike from here.”

“Actually, it’s only forty minutes of brisk walking. And it’s the only exercise I get these days, soooo…”

“All right.” He taps something on his phone before looking up at me. “I just told Bruno to take his time and then drive to the office without me.”

I frown, confused.

“I’ll walk with you,” Raphael says.

“What if someone sees us?”

“They won’t. We’ll split where I usually let you off when we go to work from my place.”

It’s a great spot, actually, in the middle of a roundabout a few blocks from DCA. It swarms with office people and cars. If you’re dressed for work, you immediately melt into the crowd like an ant stepping into an anthill. You’re no longer a person—you’re just a suit among suits.

“I don’t know this neighborhood well,” Raphael says as we emerge from the bistro on the corner of my street, steaming paper cups in our hands. “Will you give me a guided tour?”

I shrug. “It’s super ordinary compared to yours. No sites or historical monuments to speak of.”

“I’m not interested in those. What I want you to tell me about is Mia’s Ménilmontant quarter.”

“OK. Sure.” I give him a bright smile. “Welcome to Mia’s hood! I’ll try to make your tour as exciting as it can be.”

“Thank you.”

“On your left”—I point to the bakery across the street—“you see one of the many wheat temples of our capital.”

“So we’re a nation of wheat worshippers?”

“Of course.”

He lowers his brows, unconvinced.

“Picture a freshly baked, warm baguette,” I say.

He shuts his eyes for a second. “Done.”

“What do you want to do with it?”

“Break off a piece, smell it, and sink my teeth into it.”

I smile.

“Or, if I make it home,” Raphael adds, “I’ll cut my baguette in half lengthwise, butter one half, layer sliced goat cheese and dried tomatoes onto it, top it with the second half, and wolf it down.”

He sighs dreamily and swallows.

My lips quirk. “Now picture a rice cracker.”

Raphael stares at me for a moment and then throws his hands up in surrender. “You win. I’m a wheat worshipper.”

“On your right,” I say, pointing to a colorful building, “is our local médiathèque.”

“Is that a fancy multimedia library?”

“Correct.”

We walk in silence for about five minutes until we reach a crossing with traffic lights.

“And this is the fateful intersection,” I say.

“Why is it fateful?”

I point ahead of us. “That way is an early arrival at the office. And that way”—I point at the corner to our left—“has the best chai latte in Paris.”

Raphael grins. “I can see your dilemma.”

“You have no idea what I go through every morning as I wait for the green light here.”

“The call of duty versus instant gratification, eh?”

I nod.

“Which one carries the day?”

I give him an apologetic look. “I’m only human.”

He chuckles softly.

“Now, look at that building,” I say.

Raphael looks at the classic nineteenth-century limestone façade with cast-iron balconies and wooden shutters.

“Follow my finger.” I point.

“Are those…” He peers at the mosaic above the main door, blinks, and then peers again. “Space Invaders from the video game?”

“Oui, Monsieur d’Arcy.”

“How? Why?”

“It’s pixel street art. We owe it to an artist who goes by Invader and to his copycats.”

“I love it.” Raphael snaps a picture with his phone.

“Invader claims he’s placed a thousand installations all over the city.”

“Really?”

“I read it online,” I say.

“Must be true, then.”

When we reach the next intersection, I spot a bright yellow postal van and stop in my tracks.

“What is it?” Raphael asks.

“You see that La Poste van?”

He nods.

“It’s almost always at this crossing when I get here.”

Raphael surveys the van, looking amused.

“What’s worse,” I say, “it always stops to let me cross.”

“Why is it so bad?”

“Because it feels wrong. You know how even the most polite Parisian turns into an a-hole behind the wheel? Not this guy, not once. And that gives me a creepy Truman Show feeling.” I give him a comically panicked look. “What if my life isn’t real? What if it’s the Mia Stoll Show?”

“It’s real,” he says.

“Of course,” I say, going around a pile of dog poo. “I know that. But here’s the thing… I can’t prove it.”

“I can.”

“How?”

He puts his hand on his chest. “I’m real.”

I look at him expecting a grin but his expression is earnest. Way too earnest for the conversation we’re having.

“And so is my cock,” he adds, the anticipated smile finally curling his lips. “I promise it hasn’t been enlarged, elongated, stiffened, or otherwise tampered with surgically or chemically.”

I roll my eyes.

“And here”—he points to the postal depot on our right—“is the explanation for the mystery of your ever-present van.”

“I have considered it,” I say. “What do you think? The depot may explain the van, but it doesn’t explain the driver’s unflagging courteousness.”

“You know you’re weird, right?” Raphael asks.

I sigh. “I’ll work harder on suppressing my weirdness.”

“Please don’t,” he says. “I love it.”

I look at my feet, grinning.

A pair of fairy wings sprouts on my back, and I have to stay very focused for the rest of the walk so I don’t fly.

When I get into the office and fire up my computer, there’s an unread email at the top of my Inbox. Its subject line draws my attention immediately. “The day of reckoning.” My hand trembles when I click it open.

MEET ME AT THE SANDWICH PLACE OUTSIDE YOUR OFFICE AT NOON. IF YOU DON’T SHOW UP, I’LL POST SOMETHING ON THE INTERNET THAT YOU WON’T LIKE. I’LL ALSO EMAIL IT TO YOUR PARENTS.

SEE YOU AT NOON.