She Was Paris

 

It's an orange colour, I can never remember if it's called burnt orange or burned orange, maybe both apply, I guess it's not important. It is important to know that the colour of the scarf wasn't Fanta orange or traffic light orange, it was burnt, or burned orange. It's essential that you understand the particular shade of orange was just right.

She wrapped herself in her scarf, the orange one, like she was wrapping herself in a lover's arms. Her eyes were the same colour as her faded denim jacket, at the same time they were darker blue, both colours at once. With curly yellow hair everything just worked. She beamed at me, her eyes, her scarf, everything just beamed at me, then she said the magic words, "let's go”.

All night she'd allowed the belief that I'd chosen her, that I'd led the conversation, she'd arranged some confusion over the bar tab so the drinks I'd gallantly bought her went on her account, knowing I was travelling on meagre musician's savings. I had never encountered class and style like that, she made me feel like I had some of both just being around her. 

I was a bum musician doing the Paris jaunt. She was an heiress, she knew which particular shade of orange coloured scarf worked for her, burnt or burned orange. She knew how to make me feel like a romantic. 

She was Paris.

Parkstreet

Ko-fi