Good morning. Follow along with me on this. It’s 92 degrees and I’m out of nonalcoholic beer. Ms. Kramer has a torn leg, I need a column, and this one is just a stall as we wait to see who Kamala picks as her running mate.

As I said, it’s just an idea. I could drop it. Unless you like it. It’s a quiet Sunday, and I can hear your applause from here. What else do you have to do today?

The Paris 2024 Olympic Games. The spirits of Paul Gauguin, the deceased French painter, and Vincent van Gogh, the Dutch impressionist, sit at a table at Maison Rose Café in Paris.

Yes, this is my premise. Their bodies are “mort,” but their spirits are still here, walking around Paris, through history from when people were dancing at Maxims until dawn.

Like all the other Parisian spirits, they have never left their beloved Paris. Would you?

They will, like all of us when we pass, just have to sit around through eternity, drinking the little bit of wine left by lovers who didn’t have patience enough to finish. Stick with this.

None of the participants collecting silver and gold in these Olympic Games, or the millions watching them, can see or hear them. Just you and me. It’s magic.

I told you that you could drop out of this. This will require use of your imagination. You should be used to that after all these years with me. What else could you do?

They are here today as they always will be, watching the crowds of tourists and young, beautiful people in expensive sports gear walk by.

Paul puts one hand on Vincent’s arm, smiles, and whispers.

“So, Vinnie, how’s the ear?”

Vincent, still watching the crowds, growls. “You think that’s funny?”

Paul speaks. “Look at all these fools, they’re wearing flowered masks. Shouldn’t we?”

“I have no ear, you fool, or anything to hang it on. My nose is too big. It would keep falling off.” Paul laughs.

Vincent snarls. “You read the papers at the stalls, remind me again what all this fuss is about?”

“It’s the games.”

“Quoi?”

“The Olympic Games. It’s a big thing. They had them here in 1900 and 1924, I hear. I was in Hive Oa, in the islands. Remember I told you how good the poi was?”

A young couple in sports gear come to the table and try to sit down. Vincent shakes the table a bit. The couple stare at it, shocked. The boy tries again. Vincent shakes it violently. The girl’s eyes widen in fear.

“Bad table,” the boy says. “Let’s try another.”

Out on the crowded street, a small man in formal dress and a tiny bowler hat appears.

“Oh no, it’s the gimp,” Vincent snarls.

Paul frowns. “It’s poor Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, show some respect.”

Vincent scoffs. “He paints cartoon figures.”

“I heard that,” Henri shouts. “And how many boring starry nights can you paint?”

It’s Sunday. While we wait for Kamala to pick her VP, Vincent, Paul and Henri will wander to The Palace of Versailles to smell the flowers.

Wasn’t that fun?

J.P. Devine is a Waterville writer.