You probably don't know me, curled up quietly in a window seat of this coffee shop.

Like an old rose with intricate layers of petals and nectar caught in the folds, I wear a collarless blouse in white or ocre jaune, or white with blue stripes, often found on men’s shirts, paired with a carmine red and black checked skirt, and a golden-brown sweater or a cardigan with round, grayish shell buttons that occasionally shimmer softly. You don’t know that when I dress this way, I feel tempted to grace my lips and cheeks with a hint of rouge like I am 18 again but tell myself that I shouldn’t doll up and stand out. I must act like I’m not here...

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I drop a sugar cube into a muted red and cream floral cup of almost dark orange tea and slowly stir it with a silver spoon. You also don't know that these fingers, quite slim for someone my age, were once adorned with a ring of ruby — known as the Pigeon Blood for its red hue like the fresh blood that spills out when a white pigeon's breast is pierced with a knife — and at another time with a sparkling diamond ring that had been worn by a member of the Romanov dynasty. Or that a man who used to be my husband got the Greek word “Eureka” engraved on the inside of a gold ring, set with a pure white pearl, and gave it to me as a wedding gift, feeling overly proud.

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​I was 18 when I lived in Paris with my husband and wore a white and black silk knit blouse  under a black tailleur, alternating between skin tone silk socks and my favorite violet socks. To complement my outfit, I would untie my hair and get Madame Jeanne, our landlady, to style it into loose waves using a hot curling tong, then delight in my reflection in the mirror looking more effortless and radiant than ever. I can't believe that face is now gone, but this too, you probably don't know. 

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When I arrived at Gare du Nord by train from the west coast of France, I was enveloped by a soft, dreamy feeling the moment I got off at the station. That sensation of being embraced by Paris, like a newborn cradled for the very first time, still comes back to me every now and then.

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One afternoon, I strolled past the Galeries Lafayette display window, feeling pleased with how I looked in a rust-colored blouse, cocoa brown jacket, and black manteau, accessorized with elbow-length white leather gloves and side-strap shoes from a shoemaker. Inside a perfumery on Avenue de l'Opera, I found a thin, dainty bottle of Chypre de Coty sitting on a recessed wall decorated with black velvet. You don’t know that the moment I picked it up and made it mine is, and will forever be, my present.
On evenings when I put on a deep purplish-rose soirée dress with a wide décolleté, leaving my shoulders and arms bare, I would visit theaters like l’Opéra-Comique and Vieux-Colombier in a taxi with a canopy. I can't forget Hôtel Jeanne d'Arc, where I strutted around like a Parisienne, my hands tucked in the pockets of a rust red wool jacket styled with a black skirt, black shoes, and skin tone socks. On New Year’s Eve, at the stroke of midnight, a gorgeous guy who happened to be in the same café suddenly asked, “Can I?” and kissed me on the lips before I knew it. You don't know any of this.
You probably don't know why I frequent this coffee shop. Or that I can see your usual seat right from my favorite seat. 

 

But one day, you will find my name — on the front cover of a book at a second-hand bookshop. It will be more solitary than scattered fragments of stardust, withered flowers with a lingering scent, empty glass bottles that glisten in the light, or a goddess confined in a masterpiece at a museum, in the most luxurious and beautiful way.

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