Page 20 of Impulse Control
“That,” he said quietly, “is the question.”
He turned and started walking again, leaving me to chase after the answer.
And for the first time all week, I wasn’t frustrated by that.
I was hungry.
We made one more stop before René decided Montmartre had given us all it was going to. This one wasn’t a stall so much as a moving workshop.
The jewelry maker worked with chain metal right there on the street, hands flying, tools clinking softly in rhythm with whatever song drifted from a nearby café. She asked questions as she worked—where you were from, how you moved, whether you preferred weight or whisper—then shaped the answers into something you could wear.
René watched from a distance, arms folded, saying nothing.
When she finished, she slipped a bracelet over my wrist without ceremony. Braided silver and gold links, warm from her hands, flexible but strong.
“For remembering,” she said.
I didn’t ask what.
Before I could protest—or even fully process it—René stepped closer, his body blocking mine just enough that theexchange felt private. He slipped folded bills into the woman’s hand with practiced ease. No discussion. No acknowledgment. Just fairness, clean and simple.
She caught his wrist lightly. “Toujours,” she said.
He nodded once.
Then, somehow, we stumbled into a hatmaker.
An honest-to-godhatmaker.
Steam curled in the small space. Felt and wool and wooden forms lined the walls. The smell of heat and patience hung heavy in the air. I stood there longer than I meant to, watching him coax shape out of nothing, watching René speak to him with something that bordered on reverence.
“Craft survives,” René said quietly as we stepped back outside, “when people refuse to let it die.”
We started downhill then, leaving Montmartre’s noise behind, the streets softening as they bled toward the 19th arrondissement. Less performance. More life. The bracelet had cooled against my wrist, but it still felt significant. Earned, somehow.
“There,” René said suddenly.
He lifted his chin and pointed across a small square to a café on the corner. Nothing flashy. Just tables, open windows, and the hum of conversation.
“On Sundays,” he said, “you can sit on the rooftop garden, they do jazz in the afternoon. Live. Not precious. Just music.”
I followed his gaze.
“You sit,” he continued. “You drink. You listen.”
A pause.
“You go alone,” he added. “You watch. You learn.”
From what, he didn’t say.
He stopped walking and finally turned to me. “I will see you Monday.”
That was it. No encouragement. No warning. No goodbye. Just expectation.
I watched him disappear into the crowd, then looked back at the café, already filing it away. Sunday was no longer just a day off. It was another assignment.
This week had stripped something down inside me. Sanded off a layer of doubt. I wasn’t confident—not really—but I was steady. He didn’t say don’t bring the camera and excitement threaded through me. I stroked my fingers along the bracelet.
