They Can Never Be Separated

This is a work of fiction. Deep thanks to Claire, Paul and Pete at Good Day Mockingbird, for the prompt that provoked this story, and for their enormously helpful editorial review and fact-checking of the piece. I used AI to brainstorm ideas for the post, to check spelling and grammar, and for the image below. The actual composition is entirely mine. On rue Jules Vallès, the ambiance was perpetually kind of sad and dreary. Rainwater trapped in plastic tarps. Cardboard softened at the corners where it got damp. Dust undisturbed for decades in the grooves of objects. Porcelain cups with hairline cracks that someone had tried to repair with gold-coloured glue. You know, what you think a flea market is like. This is where Mathilde’s stall was located. Not in the nice part of Les Puces de Saint-Ouen, Paris’ famous ‘flea market’. Not like the stalls a few blocks north, where you might buy a 300-year-old Louis XV armoire for 20,000 euros, and where the stalls were much fancier and less…