His morning routine, hell, all of his routines, have been the same since he stopped dreaming. It was years ago, and he's always been meticulous, but even he felt it was a little ridiculous- his inability to differ from the norm unless it was for a job. Lately, though, he struggles to maintain it. He clings to his routine as much as he can, because he doesn't know how long he'll be able to keep it up. He thinks the last job, loosing Cobb, has something to do with it, but he would never admit that the real reason has long brown hair and a penchant for scarves.
He wakes at six thirty exactly. His calender tells him that today is Tuesday, which doesn't mean all that much to him because he's currently in between jobs and living comfortably off the money from the last. He combs through his short hair as per routine, uses the restroom, and goes into the kitchen for breakfast. Two lightly browned pieces of toast sit ready for him in the toaster, the timer having begun to warm the bread he left in the night before so that it is ready for him the moment he steps up to the appliance. He butters them, pours a glass of orange juice, and eats standing at his kitchen counter. He doesn't own a dining table. He has a card table in the coat closet for entertaining guests.
He cleans the plates afterward and reads the paper sitting on his armchair. His apartment is much less spartan than people expect of him, though the television is usually off and most of the furniture is simple. He puts the paper on his desk when he finishes and goes into the bathroom to wash and dress.
He leaves the house, as he always does, but instead of going to the warehouse he breaks tradition and takes a book to a quiet little cafe on a busy street. He drinks a hot chocolate in an immaculate three piece suit, carefully ignoring the advertisements called out in French from the people selling brightly colored fruits a few door fronts down the street.
He closes his book earlier than usual and orders a second chocolate, which he nurses as he observes the people walking on the street. This is part of his job he can never turn off, and he pays attention to every detail his eyes land on about the walkers. They are average Parisians, some more beautiful than the rest and others clearly tourists. It is both comforting and strangely disappointing that their eyes do not flick knowingly and simultaneously to him.
He finishes his drink and brushes a leaf from the book on the table. He is reading about architecture.
He people-watches for a while longer, overstaying his welcome at the table that the waiter desperately wants to clear. He pays his tab when he realizes this, and glances at the street one final time.
Shining brown hair catches his attention, which is drawn to a pair of full lips and determined brown eyes. He freezes when he realizes its her, taking the die out of his pocket and carefully rolling it. It lands on a one, exactly as he designed it to, and for a moment he is stunned by the sheen on her dark hair as she begins to pass the cafe.
He is thrown for a loop at his sudden indecision. Should he go to her, or should he stay there, pretend he never noticed the student he worked with once and go on with his life? He almost decides in favor of the latter, but then he remembers a murmured give me a kiss and a gentle brush of lips and he nearly trips over himself to gather his book and his die and almost, but not quite, runs to her and breathlessly calls her name. In his line of work second chances are few and far between and damn it, he will take advantage of this one.
She turns, freezes for an instant when she realizes that the man approaching her in that three piece suit is him, and she hasn't been able to get him or that kiss out of her head since she returned to France. All he sees is her face lighting up, but she's made the same decision about this chance meeting as he has. She's realized the risk of the job, not like she'll ever walk away from it, and she's beginning to understand how seldom a second chance is. She hugs him enthusiastically and though he wont tell her he's the happiest he's been in months. He invites her to the cafe with him, where the waiter rolls his eyes but seats them anyway.
They have lunch together, talking and smiling like he thought he never could since he stopped dreaming, and he drinks a third chocolate with marshmallows because that's what she's having. For her part, she doesn't even realize they're flirting until she finds her hand absentmindedly fingering her scarf because he's actually laughing at her jokes and it this isn't euphoria she doesn't know what is.
She invites him to dinner at a restaurant on her route home. He accepts. They hold hands as they walk there, and neither is sure which first reached for the others hand. They are seated at the crappiest table in the house. The wine is awful but the food is amazing, and he can't help thinking that the company is even better. They talk about architecture and paradox and finally, finally, the conversation pulls them back into their last shared dream. She explains what happened that he wasn't there to see, and he says that her insistence on the paradox staircase may have saved him from limbo. She calls his bluff on that one, but appreciates the complement.
He insists on walking her home, and on the way he finally admits that the only way the kiss would have done any good is if it were her subconscious they were trying to fool. She laughs. Says it was a pretty good kiss, all things considered and taking into account how chaste and rushed it was, and asks if he would ever do it again outside of a dream. In response, he kisses her. It's better than the first.
They climb five flights of stairs to get to her apartment, because the elevator broke that morning and he jokes that elevators are overrated anyway. They have a lengthy discussion on how overrated escalators are on the climb up. A conclusion is not reached.
At her door they pause for one tense second. He decides to kiss her again, and she's moving to his lips before the thought is fully formed. A little shyly, she tells him her last name and invites him inside. His reply is a yes and his full name. She smiles, opens the door, and writes her name, first middle and last, on a strip of paper with her phone number and slips it into his pocket. He writes his and tapes it to her fridge. Then they're kissing on her lumpy couch and her scarf is tossed aside while she unbuttons his shirt.
The both pretend not to notice as she tips her gold bishop on the coffee table and he rolls his red die on the floor beside it.