On a steaming August night, so humid and slick the shirt sticks to shoulders and back, a man in a brown suit hurries up the narrow street and flags a passing taxi.

The cab brakes screech and through the open passenger window, the white-haired driver shouts: “Where are you going?”

The man is going north, about two miles, and the driver motions him into the back seat. But when he gets in, a woman is already sitting there, directly behind the driver. She leans forward, toward the old man. “This is outrageous. You don’t let someone in the cab without asking me.”

The driver shrugs. “What’s the guy to do? The streetcars have stopped for the night.”

The younger man glances over and smiles at the woman. She is a bit younger than him, early thirties he imagines. He likes the way her anger has lit up her dark, blue eyes and made her toss her long brown hair. She has been drinking, he guesses, as she awkwardly moves a black purse to her left side. The upper button of her blouse is undone and he notices the silver pendant hanging from her necklace.

“Don’t worry about me,” he says. “I will sit quietly on my side.”

“I’m angry at the driver, not you.” She is irritated, still, the man hears something soft in her voice.

The car pulls into traffic and his mind drifts back to the long and pointless dinner he had just left. He sells flooring products, wholesale, and the retailer he was pitching over after-dinner drinks had no interest in what he had to offer, just wanted to drink and schmooze about nothing. The young man considers his to be one of those disappointing

jobs that most people have. He could do better, he knows.

No one is speaking in the taxi. The young man glances out the window for  a few moments, then turns to the woman and says, “It is so quiet tonight,  even the houses look asleep.”

She stares at him for several seconds, furrows her eyebrows. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”

The man peers at her. “You know …you’re right. I do know you, but I can’t remember where we met.” 

“It must have been years ago,” she says. “Maybe a   foreign city?”

He reflects for a moment. “I have the same feeling. Europe somewhere?”

“Maybe. I spent a year in Paris, after university.”

“That’s right,” he says. “It’s coming back. You were working…where?”

“I was studying French. But I worked part-time, in a hotel.”

“Yes, of course. Mary, isn’t it?”

She is startled by this. “Maria, actually. My god, you have a good memory. That was 12 years ago. I apologize; I can’t remember your name.”

“John,” he says. The two remain quiet for several seconds. “Well, Maria. It is great to see you after all these years. And a bit strange too.”

“Yes. Both those things.”

There is silence as the cab slips narrowly past some parked cars. John asks: “Do you remember the place where we spent the afternoon?”

“I remember going somewhere with a man I just met. The Rodin Museum?”

“Yes, the old house with the sculptures. That was memorable. I still think about that afternoon.”

“Really? That’s nice,” Maria says.

“Do you remember how we ended up in Place Pigalle? We thought it would be fun to visit a cabaret.”

She thinks a moment. “Yes, I think I do.” Maria moves closer to him. The driver stops for a red light, and casts a puzzled glance in the rear-view mirror, just as a police cruiser flashes by. The light turns green and the taxi moves on.

“You know, Maria, I remember more now. We walked down from Montmartre to the Seine. It was a warm night like this, except there were so many people about. We followed those narrow streets beneath the stars for two hours, sometimes stopping to say a few words with strangers.” He thinks a moment. “There was a couple who invited us to sit with them and share their wine. Do you remember that?”

“Yes. Vaguely. God, it was beautiful.” Maria    smiles at him, then offers tentatively: “John, you’re a nice man. Why did I never see you again?”

“I was in Paris for only a few days. I gave you my home phone number and said we should get-together when you got back.”

“I have only the slightest memory of that. But then again, it was a long time ago.”

“Just think how strange life is, Maria. Maybe if you had called me, our lives would’ve turned out differently.”

“That’s a funny thought. I hope it would’ve been a better life.”

He considers this for a moment. “It’s tough out there in the world, isn’t it?”

“Somehow, you expect life to be better than it is. It seems like so much work at times and not much to look forward to.”

The driver turns onto a side street and the car moves slowly ahead. “What number was that again, ma’am?”

“One forty-seven.” She gestures over the front seat. “There on the right, the duplex with the outside staircase.”

The taxi draws up to the curb and stops in front of the house. Maria lifts her purse and opens it, but John places his hand over hers. “I am going a lot further. It makes sense for me to pay.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. It was great meeting you again, Maria.” Maria sits, not moving. “Ma’am?” asks the driver.

“Just a few seconds, driver.” She smiles at John. It is a long smile, and then she reaches into her purse and takes out a pen and some paper and begins to write. She hands it to John. “This is my phone number. Text or call me sometime.”

John studies the paper briefly. “I will.”

“Don’t let another twelve years go by.” She opens the car door and pauses. She turns toward John. “Maybe our lives can still turn out differently.”

“Maybe they can.”

The taxicab pulls away from the curb as John watches Maria walk toward the house and the wrought-iron staircase. At the yield sign at the end of street, the cab slows and comes to a stop. The driver turns and looks at John. “That was quite something, meeting a girl you haven’t seen in 12 years. “

“Yes. Quite something.”

“One for the books,” says the old man. “Paris, that’s a place I’ve always wanted to see. Is it as beautiful as they say?”

“Oh, definitely,” says John. The taxicab pulls onto a main street and John wonders about Maria. He is drawn by her dark blue eyes and  the soft way she has of speaking. He likes what she said – that maybe  their lives can still turn out differently. Perhaps he will phone her in two      or three days.

But then again, should he really do that? After all, he has never been to Paris, never laid eyes on Maria before. And as he considers this, he wonders what Maria might be thinking now as she undresses for bed. He imagines her putting a finger on the silver pendant hanging  outside her blouse, the one in the shape of the letter M and realizing, suddenly, how easy it might be for a stranger to guess your name is
        Maria … or Mary. Or maybe she will not be that surprised, for she must realize the nighttime walk down from Montmartre was not her memory, only something that seems like a memory worth having.