Sometimes courage takes me by the hand. On those days, I don’t have to do anything — just be — and the world starts spinning around me like a whirlwind. I laugh, imagining someone up in the sky giving a little wave — and off I go.

Once, that courage led me to Athens in autumn. The perfect place on a hot day  —  cold museums, full of marble and breeze. Luckily, there are plenty of them.

I’m in a white dress, with curls and a ribbon in my hair, my head full of surreal thoughts. Everyone — from cashiers to taxi drivers — wants to talk. But I’ve got work to do.

In museums, I love the cafés more than the exhibits. You sit with terrible coffee among priceless things and feel like you’re absorbing their energy by rights. That’s how it was this time: I was writing a poem, gazing at garden sculptures, when I noticed someone watching me.

We played the familiar game — glances, a dropped pen, a near-meeting. But I got distracted by my poem — and he vanished. I smiled. Maybe he got scared. A shame.

But a moment later, he returned:
— Sorry, I don’t have internet. Can you tell me how to get to the next museum?

My phone was on airplane mode. We both laughed. Then came a name on a napkin, a number, a little tremble. He was an animation artist. I liked that.

— Would you have dinner with me?
— I know a good place.

It was a café where they already knew me. Fresh fish, juicy tomatoes, the staff felt like family.

— What will you have?
— The same as you.
— Then fries for two and two glasses of wine.

We talked about cinema. I scolded Lynch, praised Almodóvar. It was heading toward a kiss, but then:
— The check, please! Separate.

The waiter raised an eyebrow:
— But it’s fifteen euros. How do I split the fries?

Jean-Samuel insisted. Then he said something about Louis de Funès, fate, being enchanted by me. Meanwhile, I was mentally slipping into my observer’s robe — trying not to lose myself.

The kiss never happened. The waiter brought the check — €7.50 each. I reached for my phone, but the waiter stopped me:
— I can’t let you do that, — he winked and walked off.

I wanted to mirror the moment, to prick him back:
— I think you’re still in love.

He froze.
— How do you know?
— I see hearts. Write to her. Tell her everything.

— But you… I wanted to try with you. I’ve forgotten her.
— I’m sorry, Jean. But I can’t unsee things. Your immaturity, your hesitation, that “separate.” Even the waiter was ashamed.

— But that’s how it’s done!
— Not in my world. Write to her.

— She cheated on me…
— And yet you still love her. Go get her back. Here’s my stop. Have a good night in Athens. Write to me how it ends.

The next day I had wine with the café owner — the same waiter. He told me how Greek men have always treated women differently. Not like the French version of partnership — Greeks want to take care of you.

Six months later, Jean wrote to say they were back together. He thanked me, invited me to dinner in Paris.

He invited me for a glass of wine. But no, thank you. I still haven’t made space for “separate fries” in my world. And I don’t think I will.