I hear the river singing when I think of you. That early fall in Paris, the water lapping at the broad steps on the Left Bank gaining and losing intensity as the boats passed, is part of our story. We felt hidden in the vague shadows, part of love’s misleading blindness. I know we were lost in our kisses, deep in each other’s nearness, not oblivious to the world but taking it as background noise. Closing my eyes reveals you in belted black slacks, a white blouse open deep at the neck, a thin plaid car coat. The thing is, we were never in Paris. We never got as far as fall. Only one of us might have been in love. If it never happened, is a memory a lie?