Twirl, twirl, twirl. She's a beautiful young thing, young brown hair, young legs, deep blue denim jacket, yes. She's busy with a highlighter. That's right, a student no doubt. I can't imagine highlighting passages just for the fuck of it. Her face is easily forgivable though, and when she looks up, I look back down of course, to stop from staring. I've come to the curious revelation that my hand may write -- impressively straight I might add -- for some time without the consult of my eyes. It can be a subconscious thing, and then I become the weird guy staring. It can't be a strong look, but in my periphery I can see that she's smiling; shaking her head, but still she's smiling.
Ah! The line between muse and distraction is razor-thin sometimes. Serendipity though, yes. Not only fun to say, serendipity is a wonderful scheme. There's no pretense, there's nothing really, it's free. All it takes is a little perception and attention to detail. That costs nothing, like singing Soundgarden songs to the babies waiting in line.
A recreational smoking habit helps as well. I met the guy behind the counter two hours ago on a not busy street in the Marais. After all, it's a Marais day. An empty street I remember because of the clarity of the only few voices in the air, a whisper English in my ear as I walked by and the name Haim as he and a friend lit cigarettes.
It was Haim and the cigarette smoke that drew me to a decided about-face down the block to bum one. If you smoke cigarettes at all, I swear, you need to come to Paris and walk the streets. It's one of the simple pleasures in life; walking through Paris with a lit cigarette to drag on.
Anyways, they were Irishmen. God I love the Irish. They gave me three cigarettes when I told them I hated the Lumineers; real DB music, the Lumineers. And we'll all race to marry the Haim girls. "On bended knee as soon as I see 'em!" I'd said. I'm turning a corner with this Shakespeare place. I'd left six years ago in the winter with such a sour taste for writer types. Now it's iced chai on my tongue and familiar English in the air. Maybe I'm thawing in the summer heat, maybe I just enjoy the company at the cafe better. I'll poke into the bookstore shortly for a bit, see how Sylvia's doing, weaving her webs in the quiet parlor upstairs.
