Sitting at the small table, in this corner of the enchanted city, you are the quintessential woman, from a country where smoking a Gauloise is, for a pretty woman – but you all are – never a sign of ostentation.
I love the little scarf, and the beret, matching the red schoolgirl shoes, the striped sailor’s cotton shirt, and all that cheese on the table: I smile at you but you are far away.
Were you to notice me I would be the one to lose it: the irrepressible urge to be part of your picture, but, alas, as you can see, I am escaping, crawling on the white table cloth, pretending not to be there…
Under my little shell, I blink at the red wine, promise of slow cooking, and of garlic, yes, that powerful and pungent aphrodisiac.
But, as a self-contained, if not sex-less, mollusc, I shall keep my composure, and, soiling the white cloth, keep dreaming of you.