There Is A Place Somewhere Called Paris

She always saw herself in Paris.  The daydream had run through her mind so many times it had became part of her history.  It was a piece that made her who she was.  In her mind, she strolled down the Champs Elysee in late spring.  Surrounded by bobbing daffodils, she would break into a twirl of joy.  Grinning, she would spin about, her skirt floating above her knees, a hand pressing firmly on her beret to keep it upon her head.  Her shirt would vary.  Some days it would have a bold white and navy strip pattern with the collar erect.  Other days, it would be of beige military design.  Always she wore white sneakers without socks.  No socks were as important as the beret.  Socks were inconceivable in France.  Any sighting of a sock would knock her out of her ritual day dream and back into reality.  In the here and now, there were plenty of socks.  Socks to wash and sort.  Socks to tuck into draws and pick up off of floors.  Socks spilling out of shoes and carelessly dropped onto kitchen counters.  No, in her Paris, there were no socks.