Even though Neela hadn't expected the effects of an unconventional pep talk by the river to last, Dante's wise, hilarious, and heartfelt words had worked wonders.

The memory of his advice and his continued support had kickstarted some other positive effects: better sleep, getting exercise in Paris's many gardens, and once again feeling joy in the depths of her heart when she encountered the aroma of freshly baked butter croissants. Fresh croissants were an integral part of emotional rehabilitation, and even though carefree happiness still eluded her, Neela was progressively regaining control of her existence.

This continued progress had even resulted in a potentially lucrative freelance gig, the only problem being...she was likely going to be late to her first appointment.

She hurried through the quiet streets of the 16th arrondissement, working her way through a sleepy residential area that dripped vintage money.

How have they not added more trains to line nine?! she wondered angrily. She hoped that her lateness would be excused, but then she remembered that the woman she was visiting probably didn't even know what the 'métro' was. Dammit.

Luxury townhouses with big leafy trees lined an idyllic street, where up ahead, a woman in head-to-toe Chanel took her diamond-collared doggo for a stroll.

Normally Neela would stop to admire the vintage Chanel in more detail, but this time she blew right past the posh promenade, her crossbody messenger bag bouncing off her side with each hurried step.

She was a denim-clad stain on the entire neighbourhood.

And she was about to make a bad first impression.

***

After a lot more hurrying and some forehead sweat she'd tried her best to dab away with her shirt sleeve, Neela found herself inside the spacious foyer of a sprawling Parisian townhouse.

Her mouth hung open as she fully absorbed an amount of square footage that she hadn't even known could exist in this city.

It was an Architectural Digest profile waiting to happen, and somehow, impossibly...Neela was supposed to be there.

Even the butler (yes, a butler!) hadn't even noticed that she was fifteen minutes late.

As she waited for the lady of the house to receive her, she had a good feeling that things were going to go off without a hitch...

***

In the airy living room, the furniture was a mixture of modern touches and classic nineteenth century Paris.

It was here that Neela tried to pay attention to said lady of the house, a top-of-the-line high-end mom with a Piaget watch and an actual, literal Hermès Birkin bag that was perched on the luxurious looking sofa.

Neela's eyes drifted towards the bag. Birkin...Birkin...

"So can you do that then?" said the high-end mom, her accent reeking of prestige.

Shit.

Neela narrowed her eyes and started to nod. "Yes...but so I have it perfectly clear can you just confirm that again?"

The high-end mom rolled her million-euro-Chanel eyeballs. Or perhaps they were just regular eyeballs made of goo. "I said everything in the sessions must be in English! Even if he protests."

Neela stared into the high-end mom's blue eyes. She was only four or five years older than Neela, they could've even been peers, except for the several million euros the woman likely had, as well as a husband, a child...a Birkin bag...

If Neela had compared herself to this woman a few weeks earlier, she likely would've fallen into a depressing spiral, as it would've forced her to take stock of her meager income, alternative career choice, and lack of designer duds.

But today? Today she was on the brink of a securing a lucrative gig.

Neela smiled at her future wealthy employer. "Everything in English, got it."

The high-end mom furrowed her perfectly sculpted brows before carrying on. "You see, excellent English is a must for him, if he is going to succeed while he's at Oxford."

Neela frowned and pulled out her phone. "Didn't the posting say your son is ten years old?" She scrolled her email in confusion.

"He is," the high-end mom confirmed, "but it is never too early to plan."

Neela's head nodded as a show of understanding, while her face did its absolute best not to smirk. "Sounds great...you got it!"

The mom started rummaging through the Birkin, a regal, reserved two-finger rummage that was worthy of the iconic bag.

"It will be one hundred and fifty euros for the three-hour session," the high-end mom explained. She pulled out a wad of cash. "And we can continue twice weekly if all goes well."

Neela did her best to hide the feeling of surprise that was bubbling just underneath the surface. It was definitely a pleasant surprise, as she thought they had discussed a rate of thirty euros per hour, which in itself would've been a solid return on investment for the simple task improving some random kid's English.

Within seconds, her surprise took on the form of confidence, and as this new feeling quickly bordered on the always dangerous 'smug,' she quickly decided on a riskier return-on-investment approach.

Neela crossed her arms. "Hmm...the thing is...I mean...I can check my notes, but I believe we agreed on 60 euros per hour for the first session discounted price, and 75 euros per hour after that."

Neela studied the high-end mom's expression.

Confusion...hesitation...suspicion?

As the lucrative side-gig stood on the precipice of becoming an embarrassing scene where Neela would be tossed from the fancy townhouse by the high-end security guard that was probably just around the corner, the high-end mom simply...shrugged.

And then pulled more euros out of her bag. S

High-end mom studied the fistful of money in her hand. "I do not have any smaller bills; just take two hundred for today."

Neela smiled. "Great, thank you! I'll pay you back later when I have a twenty; or two tens."

High-end mom looked at her quizzically. "Tens?"

It was clear that low-denomination currency did not compute in high-end mom's inner processing system, which made Neela more and more confident that this gig would help propel her into the sort of financial independence she had always dreamed of.

Laughing all the way to the bank...

***

Later that afternoon, in the pimped-out kitchen with its Viking stove and Carrara marble countertops, Neela found herself in the midst of a stare-down. The ocular battle raged on across the black Nero Marquina marble kitchen table, and so far, Neela was winning.

An open grammar workbook sat between the great divide created by Neela and the pouffy-haired, sniveling, arrogant bitch-ass boy brat from Hell.

"If you don't learn these words your mother will be very upset," Neela said through gritted teeth.

The brat would only address her in French. "Your hair is ugly. You look homeless."

Neela self-consciously stroked her hair. "It is not..."

The brat's savage takedown was on the verge of bringing Neela to her knees.

Until she remembered one important fact: she had way more experience in psychological warfare than a ten-year-old.

Did she not have a mortal enemy for a sister after all?

I INVENTED that game.

She cleared her throat. "I'll make this easy," she said in French. "I'll tell you one phrase in English, and all you have to do is repeat after me; can you do that?"

The brat would commit to nothing but that was fine. Neela smiled and recited the phrase: "My name is Francois and I am a little shit." His widened eyes encouraged her to go on. "And if my mommy and daddy weren't rich, I wouldn't even have any friends. Or in other words, OTHER KIDS ONLY LIKE ME FOR MY PARENTS' MONEY."

The brat's face turned beet red.

Was he going to cry? Had she gone too far?

The brat took his shoe off and threw it at her head.

Maybe not far enough.

She sighed. "Let's take a break and have a snack?"

In a sign of temporary peace, the brat nodded in agreement.

Neela made her way to the fridge with a sense of relief, but she knew it was only a brief reprieve. The brat was going to make things as difficult as possible, which probably meant that she'd have to work harder to earn every cent of her inflated hourly rate.

She couldn't argue with the fact that a little less extortion and a lot more effort was only fair, and besides, hadn't this still been a really good, turning-the-corner fresh start?

Absolutely.

***

As time ticked on, wads of euros piled up, French classes began, and before Neela knew it was early September.

The balmy winds were firm in their assertion that summer in Paris wasn't dead, but the fallen brown leaves told a different tale.

Tourists strolled the river in a blissful state, soaking up every minute of this perfect Saturday afternoon. Some of them stopped for tricky selfies that required an Eiffel Tower background, while others took interest in nearby stalls selling quintessential vintage Paris prints.

On the opposite side of the river, Neela walked briskly past restaurants and cafés hawking overpriced offerings to tourists.

She was dressed in flannel and faded denim, not because she'd given up on life, but because she'd gotten comfortable enough in her Parisian existence to feel confident just as she was, and who she was in autumn was everything flannel and denim. The Canadian way.

As for the brisk steps?

She was very much on a mission.

She glanced at her phone map as she crossed another street.

She had arrived.

What was once a pet store was now run by the SPA (Société Protectrice des Animaux), but the faded store sign and window display remained.

The current display featured three manic puppies. The puppies banged their heads on the window repeatedly, as if 'canine concussion' was the number-one item on their bucket list.

Neela cringed. "Yeah...that's a hard pass."

Besides, she wasn't even here for a puppy at all.

She made her way into the shelter to complete her mission.

Once inside, she noticed a few couples and a family browsing the offerings of caged cats and dogs, each animal with its own clipboard backstory.

A young man employed by the shelter approached Neela, all greasy mop of hair and tepid French smile.

"Bonjour," he said, with an absence of enthusiasm that was usually reserved for French waiters.

"Bonjour!" Neela exclaimed, as she watched the employee bristle at her unabashed Canadian level of joy. It was always satisfying to watch them initially seem taken aback, before settling into being annoyed. A two-step sequence that never failed.

"Can I help you miss?" he said in English now. This switch to English was consistent with nearly all service workers, who would refuse to speak French when they detected a non-native accent.

And, as Neela would always do, she continued to speak French to annoy them. The simple pleasure of being petty meant one very important thing: Neela had officially returned to being her old self. Welcome back.

"I need four or five cats," she said in perfect French, "a big scarf, a cape, an oversized handbag with stale biscuits inside, and whatever else goes with never finding love and probably never getting laid again." He stared at her blankly. "You know? The 'crazy cat lady' stereotype?" His expression remained blank. "Cat," she added flatly. "I need a cat."

He pointed to his left and walked away, which wound up turning her petty pleasure into mild embarrassment.

She brushed it off in seconds, because she no longer identified as the person who dwelled on self-conscious moments. She also wasn't a person who was afraid of being regarded as one of those spinsters who adopts a cat and eventually becomes a 'crazy cat lady.' There were several reasons for this. First off, the 'relationship or no relationship' label was no longer the measure of success in Neela's existence, nor should it ever have been. Perhaps she should've realized that sooner, but realizing it late was certainly better than never, and she finally now knew that the goal posts had moved; there were infinite ways in which a woman could define her happiness. If, in Neela's case, a man wanted to make his way into her life and get in on this confident action, then perhaps, if she had time...she would consider it.

And second of all...cats as companions were cuddly, smart, and fascinating...they simply had it goin' on, maybe even more so than men.

The only thing that's crazy is to NOT get a cat!

This emphatic inner thought caused Neela to raise her head up high as she approached the aisle of adoptable adult felines that time forgot.

She strolled past the cages and found herself being surprisingly picky, especially for someone who loved cats as much as she did. "Hmm... too furry, too patchy, too resting-face-bitchy..."

She slowed in front of a cage near the back, where a chubby, black, one-eyed cat was lounging in the corner.

She consulted the clipboard for the detailed bio.

"Eye surgery..." She suddenly gasped. "Abandoned? For being different?!"

She crouched down for a closer look.

"Heeeere kitty kitty!" she cooed.

The one-eyed wonder didn't even register a one-eyed blink.

She waved. Snapped her fingers. Did her best impression of a 'meow.'

Nothing.

As her sad attempts to make a feline connection fizzled out with a few final whistles, the ocularly challenged kitty made a tentative approach.

"Yeeesssss!" Neela whispered in triumph. She stuck her finger through the cage and the cat extended a paw.

The chemistry was electric, and the conclusion was clear:

-They were inter-species soulmates

And so, it was official: there were a whole lot of ways for a woman to define her happiness...

***

About a half an hour later, Neela cradled the one-eyed cat in her arms, bouncing it up and down like it was a baby.

The same worker who had first approached her waited nearby, annoyed and expectant.

"Have you decided?" he said in French, having finally given up on the petty language games.

"I need to hold him long enough to make sure this is the real him," she declared. She zeroed in on the cat's lone pupil. "Are you pretending?" she whispered. "She glared at the attendant. "Did you drug him?"

As she continued to cradle her potential future one-eyed baby, she glanced out the window and almost missed it. She wouldn't have noticed it at all, if not for a momentary twinge in her heart that told her to take a second look.

It was a dark-haired man crossing the street.

But not just any man.

It was precisely the man who a long time ago, on a metro platform far away...had left a mark on her memory that she still hadn't managed to shake off.

Her eyes widened. "Holy shit..."