She had to ask

Standing at street’s edge; waiting for the light.

A dynamic, vibrant, bustling world class city.

—

Next to us a young woman stands, waiting.

Poised, stylish, together, confident in her own skin kind of way.

An unlit cigarette in hand.

The signature scarf worn in that effortless and elegant way;

the way of Parisian women.

—

We catch a moment’s contact of eyes

and then return to our impersonal, stoic forward stares.

Waiting.

—

I sense movement to my left and turn.

She leans in, so subtly in her graceful way.

—

Parlez vous Francais?

—

She had not pegged us as tourists.

There was the chance.

She had to ask.

—

—

Non.

But my eyes said more.

Merci.

Merci beaucoup.