The other day I woke up in 1983. I was standing in a little green kiosk. That’s how I knew. The newspapers said 1983 on them. I gave the woman behind the counter 5 francs and she gave me one back, and I said merci, and she laughed.

The sirens sounded the same and so did the rain.

I shuffled across Pont de la Tournelle. Wrong shoes for this weather. The sky in the distance over Notre Dame was striped red and blue and yellow, and marbled with grey and black cloud. I reached for my phone to take a photo, but all I found in my pocket was a slightly damp kleenex.

I didn’t know what else to do, so I just… sort of… stood and looked at it. Up there. Throbbing. Fizzing. Undulating. Calm.

And you know what?

It looked right back.