Françoise Hardy trills ‘Le Temps de L’amour’ as the city draws back Sunday morning sheets; we slug galoise-scented coffee and remember the night: crates of wine, music in the Marais bookshop; the Dutchman waltzing a plastic rose seller, pronouncing us man and wife with a jasmine ring. At Longchamp you took a chance on Molly Malone, my outsider love, trouncing all at twelve-to-one; losing bets fluttering like confetti. Hurtling below the city, our reflection captured in Metro windows. In Père Lachaise, Oscar Wilde’s bones moulder improbably. Our shadow shifts on the balcony; a wine bottle continues to pour. In a darkening chamber the stylus settles, Francois Hardy sings ‘Le Temps de L’amour.’