Hands lunge for glasses perched on a makeshift table that will become a car once again after the haze has cleared. Carefree chatter swells to fill the interval between songs. The weary sit. The energetic jostle and laugh, all thrown back heads and darting eyes.
And somewhere on this Parisien pavement reclaimed, feet shuffle closer, and then pause.
The noise and life that clothe this Friday evening will cloak them also, protecting their modesty and preserving their secret. Amid the bustle they will have been forgotten before they have even been consigned to memory. Perhaps we should also allow them their privacy. Perhaps we should not notice either.
But their feet give them away.