Seemingly, Paris is quiet at 1 p.m. on a Monday—at least in the Marais. I am sitting outside of a café, hoping for a mysterious, protagonistic moment with my journal and my whole milk latte (something only acceptable in France). The wind sends shivers down my spine, ripples through the pages of my notebook, and causes my coffee to run cold. Nothing happens, so instead I imagine witnessing myself as a passerby. The thought is bleak, so I move inside.
I sit down in a booth across from two older ladies, the only other patrons in the café. As I slide into my seat, both stare. I've caught their attention. One of the women, with thick, blown-out silver hair pulled back by her red-framed spectacles, regards me in an assessing manner; the other, clad in a red striped shirt, meets me with a smile and kind eyes. I settle in; both women continue to look at me with their respective demeanors. I shoot them a quick smile, hoping to end the uncomfortable interaction and return to my state of invisible solitude.
Once I am settled, they turn back toward each other. Stripes’s smile makes me feel warm; she looks like a mother. She wears a wedding ring, now permanently fixed on her aged finger. I think I want to cry. I've been alone in Paris for a month now. I miss my mother. They look like old friends; they look like they love each other. Somewhere along the way, I decide Silver Hair is more self-conscious, while Stripes has been weathered by the toils of her life. Stripes uninterestedly drinks a beer, taking only two sips. Silver Hair delicately nibbles at a slice of baguette. She will not stop talking. Or eating, for that matter. Now she has her phone out, showing Stripes something gossipy online. Stripes glances at me, forlorn. Her frayed, fried strawberry-blonde hair is unkempt. Silver Hair, on her hundredth miniscule bite, finishes the bread bowl, her red lipstick faded to deep pink.
Stripes cups her face and stares off into the distance. The many rings stacked on her left hand, previously hidden under the table, come into frame. Silver Hair is still talking. I want to invite Stripes to sit with me. Their main course arrives, two plates of tuna encrusted in sesame seeds.
Paris at 1 p.m. on a Monday is quiet.
