Cursory

He remembered that street in Barcelona -- or was it Paris? -- with the promenade and the cafés. The smell of fresh bread, the heat of the sun. That girl with the tall sunflower still on its stalk, and the way no one gave him more than a cursory glance.

He'd felt at ease there, and not just because he was on vacation. There had been a stronger sense of home there than anywhere this side of the Atlantic. Could he have been born in the wrong place, separate from his soul? Because he'd finally found it, there, in Barcelona.

Or was it Paris?