It was a Friday night and everybody in Paris had plans. At least, that’s what it felt like when I found out that my own coup de vin had been postponed.
On any other night, the cancellation would have been welcome news – a chance to binge-watch Money Heist, or read, or scour The Real Real for some mid-00’s Chloe. (You know those dresses that Nicky Hilton danced on tables in? I’m into that.) But that night was different. Due to an unprecedented heat wave, the entire city seemed to be out – together, in groups – cooling off by Canal Saint Martin with their Carrefour picnics, flirting over apéros, polluting the air with puffy clouds of cigarette smoke, one terrace at a time.
I scrolled through Instagram to confirm that all my 3rddegree acquaintances were, indeed, living far cooler lives than myself. I stalked a girl I haven’t been friends with for a decade, but still like to regularly compare myself to. I considered ambushing my boyfriend from 400 miles away, but, in a rare moment of self-control, resisted.