The Palais de Danse.

Friday night.

Patricia stood under a strip-light's glare waiting for the coats while Sylv went for chips.

"Mmm, That smells good!" Said Michael as he passed them through the hatch.

"Evening in Paris." She blushed, putting hers on.

"Ever bin?" She shook her curls as a reply. "Shall we go?"

"Eh?"

"Paris. Me and you?"

She looked at him then. Thought he'd do. And said
"How about Tuesday week? Take us to the flicks?"

He did.

The Guns of Navarone.

A year later they wed. Within five years had a houseful.

Neither of them ever made it to Paris.