One day in Paris,
I sit in a cafe-alfresco near the Eiffel Tower on a bright sunny day.
Sip my coffee; eat ham and cheese croissants all day.
I watch tourists pose in each other’s backgrounds,
Pickpockets hands wander from purse to back pockets.
Crying children met with frowns.
I chuckle and go back to my old book,
Legs swing free from my bar stool.
My coffee cup runs dry.
Should I have another scone?
Then I see him from a little away.
Jet black hair tossed by the wind.
You’ll see little curls at the tips if you squint.
He’s in a suit,
Why in the world is he in a suit?
He spots me and starts my way,
Do I know him?
What’s his name?
I look around my little alfresco cafe,
Queerly empty for a breezy Saturday.
‘Hi,’ he says and I couldn’t help but notice
His purple eyes and sharp chin.
I do not reply,
In case my voice falters.
His face is of pure confusion
He looks around and adjusts his tie.
I catch a glance of his cashmere sweater.
Just for the fun of it,
I stare back at him.
As if daring him to try again.
His mouth opens and closes,
He’s at a loss of what to do.
I look back to my book to try and hide my laughter.
‘Is this very funny to you?’ Mystery man seems irritated.
‘Yes, it is’ I reply in the same tone,
Still mocking him.
He stares at me for a few moments
and finally gets it.
He laughs and I do to.
‘Have a seat’ I gesture
‘have a coffee. Have a scone.’
‘I live here, I have them everyday.’ he flat out refuses
I frown and nod back into my book.
‘but I know you don’t’
I look up to say something but he snatches
my poor old book from my fingers.
‘Give it back!’ I make a feeble attempt at it.
He lifts it higher as I get out of my bar stool.
It is also the time I realize
how tall he really is.
‘Lunch with me’ he soothes.
Or would I interpret,
I glower at him,
Pretty boy had it coming.
Did I just call him pretty?
I ponder as I watch him tuck my book under his arm.
Oh what the heck,
It’s a beautiful day,
Why not spend it with a beautiful boy?
It’s just one day in Paris.