A couple of times a year, for years, before the before-times (a.k.a. the pandemic), I’d arrive in Paris, glancing at my watch. Would I catch Charlotte before she left work? It didn’t matter—I’d never leave town without having my spirit lifted by her warm laughter at the flattery of the crazy American’s persistent returns.

And, of course, chocolate. The world’s best chocolate shops bear the name of artist and chocolatier Patrick Roger. If you ever go, you must try the spheres: take one whole, pause, and let the flavors and textures explode in your mouth.

I met Charlotte at one of these locations when she was working the counter, and over time, she rose to manage her own shop. Though I tried to ask her out, she kindly revealed her loyalty to her partner. What began as playful encounters grew into a friendship built on the simple pleasure of enjoying each other’s company in the refrigerated shops.

On one visit, I was accompanied by my then-girlfriend. With a teasing grin, I said, “I’m going to introduce you to my French girlfriend.” As expected, her head whipped around, locking eyes with me. I explained, and she knew me well enough to anticipate a fun encounter—and it was. They hit it off immediately. At one point, my girlfriend turned to me, grinning, and said, “You can keep your French girlfriend. Charlotte is amazing.” Charlotte’s web of charisma, wit, humor, intelligence, and beauty is inescapable.

When my mind needs a break, I rewatch The Bourne Identity. I often skip ahead to the Mini Cooper car chase through the streets of Paris to refresh my memories of the city. In the 21 years since its release, I’ve never watched the movie’s car crashes without thinking about the innocent, fictional collateral damage left in the wake of heroic escapes—not just in Bourne, but in every movie and TV show with scenes like these.

There’s no need to catalog all the physical pain and suffering that can result from car accidents. Yet, whenever I see a crash on screen, I can’t help but wonder what injuries the fictional characters might have endured. Before long, I’m pulled out of the film, thinking about the social and economic tolls the fictional victims would face.

I don’t know what Charlotte’s partner—let’s call him Claude—does for a living, but let’s imagine he’s a small business owner. Say he was driving the van in The Bourne Identity, the one that crashes and tips onto its side because Jason Bourne tore the wrong way down a one-way street to make his escape.

Did Claude break an arm? A rib? Who’s running his business while he’s stuck in the hospital and going through rehab? Maybe he only has a few employees—who’s covering their shifts? And if that was their only van, how long before the insurance pays out—if it ever does?

After the brief wave of social sympathy fades, customers won’t care why Claude’s products are delayed—they’ll move on to another business, and Claude could lose everything. And how would that stroke of bad luck affect his and Charlotte’s relationship? They’d likely rally, but Father Time is unforgiving. They’re both at the age when starting a family can’t be postponed much longer.

How would Claude emotionally handle all of this? All because our hero—a hitman for America—wanted to live another day.

“Ricky, you think way too much!” I’ve heard it all my life, and those who say it—or think it—aren’t wrong. The men in my life who know how to put that thinking to good use become lifelong friends. Only one woman was ever turned on by it, and losing her drove me to the brink. I’m confident there was another who felt the same, though she never said it.

I hope that Charlotte and Claude don’t just accept the good, the bad, and the ugly in each other. Ideally, they’d find themselves constantly turned on by all of it. The thought that it could all be taken away because some asshole had to check their messages while driving—or was in such a rush to get one car length ahead—turns my stomach.

The driver of the Corvette in this week’s photograph decided that where he wanted to be mattered more than the safety of others. He was in a hurry, distracted, and overconfident in his ability to control a high-performance car. Private profits, socialized losses. He thought only of himself, blind to the ripple effect of his reckless impulses.

The cost to the city for responding to and repairing the damage means less funding for more important needs. Since no one was killed, his pride will go unchecked, and he’ll remain a menace to society—a walking embodiment of “bad luck,” waiting to strike a couple like Charlotte and Claude in his neighborhood. Leaving wreckage in his wake, just as he did with the shattered glass of the bus stop, the disembodied shopping cart, the twisted metal that once stood strong, and the pedestrians who saw their lives flash before their eyes.

My mind returns to the film, only to be pulled out again when the motorcycle cop flies off his bike and lands hard on his back. Oh, the injuries! Will he have to retire? The fears law enforcement families suppress every day rush to the surface, injecting months of anxiety into their lives. Will this throw his school-age children off course at a critical time in their studies? And what toll will the stress take on his partner?

There’s a thrill in dating the reckless—Jason Bourne and Marie are prime examples. Their romance, of all places, in an action flick I love just as much as True Lies. Prince’s classic hit inevitably comes to mind whenever I connect reckless behavior with relationships—a subject for another time. “Baby, you’re much too fast” tells me he knew the reckless all too well.

And now… know the photograph.