John and Mira

Gold and Parisian Blue

The sky is blue. As many poets, painters, and authors before had observed so splendidly before. Yet; it is a different kind of blue, an almost hazy golden blue that melts into green as it settles on the trees and the grass of the small gardens littered on the ground. Mixing and twirling like a Van Gogh, never quite blending but chasing each other around like a fish in a tumultuous river. It is a blue any Parisian is used too. Though hard to forget all the same. The faint smell of roses careens in and out of time as John wades through the crowded evening of the flea market. His hands rest deep in his pockets, his figure almost blending in with the scenery as his khaki pants become the tan stone and his white shirt form the scenic cafe. This is only further proven by the amount of tourist bumping into him as they shoved their way up stream. He smiled despite himself and shook his head, a small tuft of red hair falling in his eyes. The Parisian blue started to become a Parisian purple as the yellow coin in the sky began to slip into a small slot beyond La Seine. Slowly he found his way to a charming little stall. Various memorabilia sits stagnant on shelves collected from different markets and houses throughout France, creating a cacophony of unmatched furniture that seemed slightly mad in its lack of uniformity. Which gave it a charm only thrift shops can devise, rugs of different make sat rolled in a small milk crate. Records rested against each other on a creaking wooden table covered in your grandmother's favorite lace tablecloth. An old woman sat on a small wooden bench behind the table, she had a smile as warm as freshly baked cookies, and her short, tubby, slightly hunched body made her seem like a character in a book. The comparison only was topped by her black outfit, which was covered by a long white cardigan and a string of pearls. John approached her and smiled at the Disney-esque woman as he began to absentmindedly peruse the old records. Cole Porter, Glenn Miller, George Gershwin. He raised an eyebrow at the collection, his bright blue eyes seemed a bit duller as his eye-bags gave away his sleep deprivation and his nose wrinkles and concerning furrowed brows gave him a few more years than he deserves.

"Pardon, C'est combien?" He asked with a relaxed smile, holding up the Gershwin Record. his lips being the last piece of evidence to prove how truly young he actually is.

"20 euros." Replied the woman with a smile as bright as the moon and a kind, yet terrible, attempt at a french accent.

John laughed at the unfortunate accent, immediately going a bit red in the face with embarrassment.

"Do you speak English, perhaps?

"Oh!" The women exclaimed with an obvious enthusiasm, the small cafe behind her began to darken as it closed down, and the narrow curved street became less peopled as the small booths began to be packed into boxes for tomorrow.

"I do, I'm English and i must say it's not very often you meet another native english speaker in this part of the city.

"You are completely right, its normally the heart of the city where all the tourists roam."

"So you aren't a tourist?"

"No, i work at the Monet Ballet downtown."

"You are kidding." She said with a stoic shocked expression that seemed out of place on her friendly face with the tone of her high and creaky voice.

" No indeed."

"Well, i just moved here with my daughter. I used to come to Paris every spring and summer on vacation and i would see a ballet or two on every visit."

"Really than yo-" Before John could even hope to add another syllable, the woman took another step forward and spoke as if he hadn't even begun.

"But once my husband died we just decided to pack up and move here. We've been selling the stuff we don't need and trying to make some money on the side, the flea market works better than amazon, at least for a old coot like me. You see my granddaughter is 18 and just got accepted into the Monet and i have never cried so hard, well, not since Harold died. The ballet had always been such a special tradition for our family and now it will be for the next generation and i must say it's one of the best experiences of my life."