Tous les Même
There was something in her eyes. For Paris it may have been all the same- to me it was not. The way her hands moved. The curly roots of her hair pulled into a top knot. Her full lips stained red. Plump, they sucked the life from her cigarette and in that moment I wanted to be her. Middle aged with smooth pore less skin, there was something familiar to her presence. It was all the same, yet different.
As I sipped my coffee the steam seducing me with the aroma of richness, I realized she was the woman you never wanted to fall in love with. She sat alone in the cafe for a reason. For if you tried to join her, if you dare tried to love her you would never be able to turn back. She would demand every ounce of love in your veins. You see, as a stranger looking from afar- the cafe was still. There was little movement because she demanded my focus. I could not divert my eyes.
Her average blouse and coat were all the same. However, it accentuated her jawline, sharp and tender, and that gorgeous collarbone. As a woman I couldn’t help but wonder what men 20 years ago thought of her. Did she tease them, or was she teased? How many times was she properly loved? What does properly even amount to?
She was mysteriously divine. The smoke clouding around her was the warning sign- don’t you get close. It was all the same smoke, with a specific message. The ashtray was becoming cluttered, and as I rummaged through my coin purse ready to exit, I glanced back at this woman allowing her silhouette to stain my memory.
I was possessed by her aura. When her eyes finally caught mine- they smiled. Women with those eyes are quite rare. They are the women who sit alone in the cafe with their cigarette loving only their solitude. It is the women who are certain of themselves that can smile with their eyes. She peacefully pierced my gaze. Slipping beyond the door to the cafe, the rest of Paris kept moving. It was all the same.