So I killed a hero

Paris is addictive. Every trip there I get a little more drunk on the place.

The streets of St.Michel with their clumsy, warm, cosy cobbles. The number of footfalls on the old stones… imagine the number of stories they would have to tell.

Of happy skipping steps...
Of sad lingering steps...
Of drunken non-caring steps...
Of curious wonderstruck touristy steps...

I play hopscotch on my mind, the stones are too tempting not to and I am too old to.

‘So tell me about your book that you might never write’, he asks.

I push the marker with my mind, stop, think and don’t answer him.

‘Where is it set?’

This I can answer. ‘India and Paris’.

In a fit of magnanimity I tell him some more.

‘The girl is Indian.’

Hop.

‘And the hero is French.’

I hear his quiet voice tell me, ‘There are no heroes’

Except in books, I want to tell him. But even they are created.

The marker falls on the line. The game ends.
The stones are cold now.