A young couple sits

next to us

at the Mangez Juste

He’s handsome.

She doesn’t match

but acts madly

in love and darts

to another table

for sugar to treat

her coffee

when he doesn’t

act on her hints.

A chestnut tree

is visible through

a half moon

of window.

We’d dodged its

warped rind

and bounty

of sidewalk nuts.

Their hue reminds

me of horsehides

not the roasted fare

street venders sell.

I picture

the smitten

woman emerging

from a rustic canvas

gleaning fallen nuts

in her faded apron

to prepare what

she believes might

be an irresistible

dessert for pretty

boy until finally

deciding to turn

the tables—omit

any sweetener.