Let's play Name That Goddess
I took my print out of my paper to Le Fournil this morning to complete editing and write the section on Eileithyia while indulging in some Paris tea and some pastries.
A beautiful woman, ethnicity uncertain, perhaps Indian, perhaps not, her skin much darker than light, lighter than dark, long black hair, beautiful black eyes, sat on one of the communal benches in a full-length African-ish tunic, eyes alert on the room, as if she was waiting for something.
"Can I sit here?" I asked from the other side of the table, in case she was holding the table for a large party.
She responded in a low voice, something that sounded like, "No. Just sit there." She smiled with unblinking, direct eye contact.
Confused, I tried again. "Is there room for me?"
Her voice had a lovely accent that I couldn't identify, "There is room." She waves her hands at all the space. "Why would not there not be room?"
"I thought you might be waiting for a group of friends."
"Why would you think that?"
I shrugged. "You're beautiful. Are you waiting for friends?" (I don't know why I said the beautiful thing, as if only beautiful people can have friends. But I'm glad I did or maybe this whole conversation would have been less interesting.)
Her eyes narrowed. She asked, "Are you waiting for a train wreck?"
"No." I answered and then was struck by the question. "No?" I laughed. The serene semi-smile stayed on her face.
I pulled out my paper and started reading. In my peripheral vision, I could see her running her fingertips along the rim of her coffee cup, staring at me.
Awhile later, she got up and used the restroom. As she came past me to leave, she stopped long enough to lean in towards me and say this:
I hate what is beautiful.
I hate what I cannot have.
And then she left.
A beautiful woman, ethnicity uncertain, perhaps Indian, perhaps not, her skin much darker than light, lighter than dark, long black hair, beautiful black eyes, sat on one of the communal benches in a full-length African-ish tunic, eyes alert on the room, as if she was waiting for something.
"Can I sit here?" I asked from the other side of the table, in case she was holding the table for a large party.
She responded in a low voice, something that sounded like, "No. Just sit there." She smiled with unblinking, direct eye contact.
Confused, I tried again. "Is there room for me?"
Her voice had a lovely accent that I couldn't identify, "There is room." She waves her hands at all the space. "Why would not there not be room?"
"I thought you might be waiting for a group of friends."
"Why would you think that?"
I shrugged. "You're beautiful. Are you waiting for friends?" (I don't know why I said the beautiful thing, as if only beautiful people can have friends. But I'm glad I did or maybe this whole conversation would have been less interesting.)
Her eyes narrowed. She asked, "Are you waiting for a train wreck?"
"No." I answered and then was struck by the question. "No?" I laughed. The serene semi-smile stayed on her face.
I pulled out my paper and started reading. In my peripheral vision, I could see her running her fingertips along the rim of her coffee cup, staring at me.
Awhile later, she got up and used the restroom. As she came past me to leave, she stopped long enough to lean in towards me and say this:
I hate what is beautiful.
I hate what I cannot have.
And then she left.