myriad of secret thoughts

The nice fat lady bade them a good holiday in Paris. The City of Lights.
And sure enough they found themselves on a Wednesday in Paris, in a little bohemian boulangerie.
The waiters spoke French, the menu was French, the music playing in the background was French, the very posters on the wall were French. But this did not intimidate them, did not make them uncomfortable. Because they were wise, or tactful, enough to know how to generate their own realm of comfort, by following a simple rule: When in France, do as the French do!
So they thought of twirling, of spreading their arms wide and spinning themselves to dizzying heights, releasing inhibitions with reckless abandon. But twirling is only allowed in Turkey.
They thought of doing a samba, where she could sway her summer skirt and they’d watch the sunset as it bleeds into the sea, turning the beach into an orange coloured spectrum, to match the colour of the walls in the little Parisian parlour where they sat. Or the colour of a parrot’s chest. But sambas are only allowed in Brazil.
No, the French do something else.
The French (bless their wine-filled souls) ... they fall in Love.

And so it was on that sweet little Wednesday, three days after Bob Marley’s birthday, two days after the Brazillian samba festival, and on the day of the New Year of Fortune, that they fell in Love. It was in Paris, in the city of Lights, that incidentally they felt exceptionally Bright.
It was the night that they became We... and they felt... Complete.