The Parisian sun is at it’s fullest.
Two souls stationary and absorbed in retracing the nostalgic charm of Ernest Hemingway sit at an envied cafe table positioned in the bustling heart of Montmartre.
Surrounded by a blend of patrons, french accordian and festive vibe, the moment seems perfect.
I look to him, a black bowler hat on, which suits him perfectly (he reminds me of someone I went to school with) holding his prized camera.
His lover reclines back, relaxed in her chair, scarf around her neck and Ernest Hemingway book in her pale hands.
She smiles, pretends to be reading, and giggles with him, posing naturally as if no one else exists.
They are in their own world.
They are in love.
They dreamt of this -to absorb themselves in the romanticism and coolness of Paris, the old and the new entwined.