Oui, pourquoi pas, asseyez-vous dans une café, commande un boisson, fume une cig.
C’est gentille, non?
J’aime bcp cette rue – Rue Vieille du Temple. Ça veut dire quoi, ‘Vieille du Temple’, je n’ai aucune idée. Mais ici vous trouverez plein de magasins petits et mignons. Des cafés, des magasins de jouets, un boulangerie juif aussi si je me souviens correctement. Pas loin de centre de ville, un peu au l’ouest.
She owns a little shop of dresses and knick-knacks. He is a reporter pal from a little paper or magazine. He likes her because she’s quirky and not mainstream and fairly casual. She always comes out with a new pinup in her hair, throwing on a worn denim jacket. Maybe she’s a tailor instead. She likes him because he’s cute – what else does a girl need. He asks her what’s the news in the fashion industry. She melts under his gaze and smile. That’s his friend behind, not a colleague. He just happened to be a pal who is crashing the interview. No biggie. The hidden lady’s a writer. She was recording the interview. Now she is just having a cig and musing about life. She’s so over him and his smiles. The aroma of fresh coffee alternates with tobacco clouds. The voices echo off the wall panels and water glasses. Everyone seems to have a purpose. They stride past like People Of Business. Yes it is Le Weekend, but People have brunch, or coffee, dates to attend. There are never enough weekends, non? Always one more coffee, one more cig, one more bonne amie.
He was always the charming one, wasn’t he? François with his deep eyes and glib tongue. François who leans across the table into your eyes – ‘Vous êtes d’accord, Oui?’
‘Oui, dit Felix. Oui’ Felix who kinds of flits around between theaters and libraries and is forever a mess of papers and ideas. If he could pull it together he would be something, this Felix. Maryanne could never understand. This rainbow phoenix world, the tomes of dusty words and abstract ideas. Simpler in colors and textures. Simpler. Beautiful. Puertra has always been with François. The two of them intoxicated with something nobody understands. She is always in her notebook. She wouldn’t let anyone read what she writes. ‘Un jour. She says. Un jour.’ and we wait. While twice a month we sit at this table, always in this corner. Le café. The soul of Le Paris qui on aime.
I re-enabled my US-international keyboard setting to type all the accents. Really fun! Those were the days. (the parts without the accents are by phone, I’m sure the setting is somewhere)
If you haven’t clicked through the link, do so. I’m really fascinated by the photo. Granted Satorialist is a celebrated fashion blographer and goes to awesome places, this one is really surreal. The lady is wearing a bizarre silver thingy on her hair, with a denim jacket, no watch, classic red nails. She looks like she is listening to one of the guys. The guy in black has jet black hair and slightly effeminate features, slicked hair, sharp features, sunglasses, fantastic expression and lips, strong eye contact with lady. He doesn’t seem to be talking, so why is the lady looking at him and not the other guy. Second guy partially hidden is wearing grandma-top, buttoned up, thick specs, wispy ephemeral hair, another strong facial expression. He seems to be talking, but is anyone looking at him? Lady hidden has a lit cigarette, assorted bracelets, a pen and what resembles a Moleskinne notebook. Is that a voice recorder on the table? Glasses of water, espresso.