Michael was content. Not giddy-happy (like cold-pink cheeks, noses touching, on a bridge in Paris) but content. The air was mild in California. His bike ride to work was peaceful. He was content with his wife—pretty, but not too pretty. Two young daughters. A border collie even.
He’d been so restless! Buses, trains, backpacks, cities full of strangers- so much loneliness, just for those brief thrilling moments of tingly alive, holding her (whoever she was—didn’t matter really) against him and There I am! Hello again!
Sometimes he dreamed of Paris. But he was always content to wake up.