Windy, slightly stormy, possibly a little rainy.

Paris.

I think the city’s streets and buildings fell into a grid-like arrangement, though I’m not entirely certain. 

I have this lingering intuition that the street market of bric-a-brac was arranged thus, from the even, geometric spacing of the tables, to the equally uniformed distribution of items on them.

I’d gravitated to a squarish tile, adorned with some kind of embossed filigree. 

This tile did just about everything, and I knew it.

The icing on the cake was that it was also edible.

The icing on the cake was that I was looking at some kind of outdoor drapery beyond my biscuit de la phantastique. It rippled and blew in the gusts of wind, howling around the Parisian grid.

Didn’t I need to settle with someone?

Wasn’t there a small presentation box, with instructions?

Was I buying it or returning it?

Would the elements wipe all of this, and my uncertainty away?