Title: "Paris on Fire"
Scene: A bench on the banks of the Seine. The heat is stifling.
Jean-Luc – (pulling at his collar) Paris is sweating like a marathon runner on his last stretch. The asphalt softens, the walls perspire, and the shop windows shimmer like pools of mirage.
Marie – A mirage? No, a soufflé rising, swelling, threatening to explode… Paris has become a convection oven, and we are the gratins browning to perfection.
Jean-Luc – Except we are not meant to be savored, Marie. We are the frogs in the pot, unaware that the water is already boiling.
Marie – (nervous laughter) Ah! A gastronomic apocalypse! After all, isn’t Paris where the finest recipes were invented?
Jean-Luc – (darkly) Recipes, yes. But this one has the taste of denial and oblivion.
Marie – Look at them, the passersby… They shuffle along, as if the cobblestones have turned to embers. And the pigeons! They, too, are cooked, nailed to the shade, their wings splayed like discarded handkerchiefs.
Jean-Luc – And the river, look at it… It no longer flows, it sweats. It looks like an old soup reduced too much.
Marie – A soup where wilted fish drift, bottles tossed to the sea that will never reach a shore. The barges no longer float—they cling to the last trickles of water, turned into stilted homes.
Jean-Luc – And we, castaways in a world gone awry, condemned to watch the mercury climb like a thief up the Haussmannian balconies.
Marie – (smirking) A thief, or a love-struck fool climbing toward a Juliet who no longer cares?
Jean-Luc – Paris does not mock, Marie. It suffocates. And we with it.
Marie – So what then? Do we pretend nothing’s happening? As if the city isn’t melting before our eyes?
Jean-Luc – (gesturing to the Eiffel Tower) Look at her… Standing like a colossal iron thermometer, trembling under this feverish blaze. If she had a tongue, she would beg for a drop of water.
Marie – But what drop of water? Even the parks have surrendered. The benches are searing plates, the trees turn their shade into mirages. There’s no resting there anymore, just slow roasting.
Jean-Luc – (resigned) As always, we adapt. We set up misters in the squares, install drinking fountains, and hope for rain from an angry sky to save us.
Marie – But what if it never rains, Jean-Luc? What if this oven never turns off?
Jean-Luc – Then Paris will become a phoenix. It will burn, then be reborn. But us? Will we still be here to witness it?
Marie – (whispering) One must believe in miracles.
Jean-Luc – (watching the river) All that remains are children’s tales and dreams of the past. The rest drifts away, like a hot gust of air…
Marie – (gazing up at the Eiffel Tower) And what if Paris stopped fighting? What if, tired of shining, it simply flickered out like a candle too far spent?
Jean-Luc – Then all that would be left is a pile of ashes. A faded postcard of a city that once was, whispered about in hushed voices, like a legend no one dares to believe in anymore.
Marie – (murmuring) Paris, the city of lights, reduced to a flickering flame…
Jean-Luc – …dancing one last time before disappearing.
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