Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Ut elit tellus, luctus nec ullamcorper mattis, pulvinar dapibus leo.

Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Ut elit tellus, luctus nec ullamcorper mattis, pulvinar dapibus leo.

Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Ut elit tellus, luctus nec ullamcorper mattis, pulvinar dapibus leo.

Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Ut elit tellus, luctus nec ullamcorper mattis, pulvinar dapibus leo.

She was always late to his looks. Paul arrived at somewhere lovely while she was working out the logistics of each day- each choice. His dreaming to her calculations. It had worked for many years- their friends remarked how lucky for balance. But as she pinched and zoomed at the map watching her data drain she caught his dreamy admiration skyward and the last bit of a strange formation of Swallows lower than she liked and it caught in her like something hot and needy. It was less their flight than their path. Their boomerang. Always only returning.

Sophie looked up. The sound of the birds flying overhead grew louder, and she watched as they crossed the sky and then slowly disappeared. She turned to Paul. “What are they again?” She asked. “Chiff-Chaff.” He answered. “They’re on their way south.” 

Paul leaned back and rested against Sophie. She sighed and touched his hand. “And when do you plan on going south as well?” She asked. He took a long time before he answered. “I need to find Michael.”

Somewhere between late summer and early autumn, when the sun stops burning and begins illuminating the frost, Michael dropped his surname and recrafted himself Michael Andre. This was not a spur-of-the-moment decision. The idea was born of the death of his father, who he’d liked less than he should – certainly not enough to continue carrying the name ‘Fish.’ He hadn’t told his mother who, because of the bizarre naming codes of her country, had been burdened since marriage with the cruel, ‘Fried-Fish.’ Although pronounced ‘Freed,’ no one ever had pronounced it thus`.

Having dropped his name, he declared himself an orphan and moved to Toulouse to open a bakery and dance the Tango.

If one had thought opening a bakery or dancing tango seemed like an odd move for Michael Andre, they would’ve been correct. 
He had seen a documentary on the legendary physical art-form and had instantly envisioned a future of himself performing the elegant movements of the tango. 
As for the bakery… Man! Did Michael Andre love a croissant. The crunchy and flakey outside — the tender and warm inside — He needed to learn this allusive culinary artistry in the land of origin: France. Once he had mastered the craft of this sweet treat, he would take the leap and start his soon-to-be-famous bakery (or so he hoped). 
Was this a foolish enterprise? Perhaps. But he was determined and endlessly optimistic as he set off on the boat to Calais.

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