You: long red hair, surfer-rocker-philosopher energy. Me: staring at baggage, then bailing for an Uber instead of saying hi. We landed in NYC, but I was still lost in Paris. Watching you by the baggage carousel, it felt less like JFK and more like the Seine—bags drifting past like barges, and you, standing there like something out of a left bank novel. If you felt the spark, say hi. I promise next time, I won’t look away.
