1 Shade of Paris

A short story

1st installment

Winter.

The leftovers from autumn’s leaves are swept into a bed of tousled confetti.  Christmas lights are projected through the crystal air, broken only by a faint whisper of cloud.  The wind blows momentarily and the leaves tumble down in a cascade of deep magenta.  One settles on my scarlet scarf - emblazoned with sprinting stallions - and curls into a heart.  Douce Nuit ripples out of an old record player on the Champs Elysées, glittered with festive spirits and candy wrappers.  A gentleman offers me a glass of freshly brewed mulled wine.  Christmas is arriving in Paris.

I spend my days funnelling through little side streets with their quaint Latin architecture and intricate black iron balconies.  I stumble upon Rue Ferou with lines from the poet Rimbaud inscribed on its musty yellow bricks.  I withdraw my Polaroid.
 

Hopping on the metro, I find an empty seat between a dog, its owner and a cheerful old man.  I peer above my broadsheet newspaper to stare at a dashing Monsieur; a 20-something year old young professional with a leather satchel and glossy brown hair which he flicks to the side occasionally with help from his chiselled jaw line.  He pretends to read a free copy of Le Direct Matin but I know he secretly can't help looking at me, the mysterious red-head with the sea green eyes hiding behind the giant canopy of words.  The metro gets busy and we stand up to make way for loved up couples and map-bearing tourists on their way to elegant soirées and cheerful Brasseries.  He accidentally brushes my hair with his perfumed lapel before I bite my lip and giggle.  Charmed by my British allure he darts me the eyebrows but before he can say anything, I disappear into a sea of faces, ready to discover what Paris has next in store for me.