“Attendez-vous a quelqu’un, Madamoiselle?”
“No, I am not…why do you ask?” She paused, “And—in English, s’il vous plait?”
He smiled, “You have been resting in that same spot for thirty minutes, I just suspected you were passing the time waiting for a lady friend or perhaps a gentleman.”
“No, I am just enjoying the silence—thinking.”
“Well, in any case, is the seat adjacent to you vacant?”
“Well, yes, isn’t it?” She giggled gently as the man replaced the vacancy next to her with his warm body. She watched as he lit a long cigarette, smoke illuminating his charming smile.
“So, what is it you were thinking of, mon amour?”
“Mon amour? Monsieur, I am hardly a love of my ex-mari, let alone for a stranger like yourself.”
“Excusez-moi, Madamoiselle, but I find that love is often too ill spoke of here in Paris, I thought you might have taken to it differently.”
“And how might I have taken it?” She coyly asked, leaning away from him.
“Well, amour, beautiful love, I suspected you would have been taken kindly by my charm and brought to my arms quicker than polish to fingernails.”
“Oh? Well I suppose Paris has produced an ill-mannered maiden, for I am not kindly taken and I never polish my nails.”
“Excuse my abruptness then, Miss. You do have the most unapproachable stature about you. May I ask how you met your ex-husband?”
“You may not. It is not much of a feather ruffling tale anyways.” The woman picked the cigarette from his lips, inhaling thickly the tobacco through her lungs before slipping the filter back between his lips.
“What is your name?” He asked slowly, exhaling the smoke through his nose and eying her with the oddest look that was something akin to fascination.
“Bordenette Ermengarde. And your name?”
“Camus. Albert Camus.”