PAUL CHRISTENSEN

It's late afternoon in my little French village. The shadows are pools of gray poured over the sizzling gold sidewalks. Very quiet about now. People are dozing after a big Father's Day dinner of pot roast, ratatouille, long skinny loaves of bread for dipping into the gravy, a cherry pie, and little cups of smoking French coffee strong enough to take the enamel off your teeth. No one smokes anymore, but the kids may drift off down the narrow street and light up a hand-rolled s