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About Lyon

I roll up, window down, heart poundin like a drum. She’s all, “Hey, sugar, you lost?” and I’m laughin inside—lost? Hell, I been lost since ’92! “How much?” I ask, tryin to play it cool, but my voice cracks like a damn teenager. She throws a number, and I’m shocked—$50? What in tarnation? Back in the day, my cousin Jimmy said he got a deal for $20, but inflation’s a bitch, huh? “How’s that workin for ya?” I mutter to myself, countin crumpled bills.

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So, I grab my coffee and head to my shop on Rue des Écoles. It’s a cozy little place, but man, it gets crazy sometimes. I’m just setting up when this lady storms in. She’s all flustered, waving her broken glasses like they’re a white flag. “I can’t see! I can’t see!” she yells. I’m like, “Chill, lady, I got you.” But inside, I’m thinking, “Why do people wait until the last minute?”

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