She had a delicate pink cotton dress draped over her slender twenty-fiveish form. Her hair was short, and her worn running-shoes belied her delicate figure. She quietly walked over to the table at the outdoor café, Les Tanneurs on Rue Samson.
It was a tranquil setting. She ordered a bottle of red wine and sat, forlorn in her thoughts. The waiter poured her first glass and left the bottle.
Slowly, over time and two glasses of red, a tear slowly escaped and rolled over her cheek, and onto her glass of wine, only to find solace in the wine which was now having the desired effect.
He watched her for several minutes. Usually, he would approach café patrons for conversation; but, not this time. She was still lost in the throes of feelings, perhaps unrequited . . . that would dissipate someday. But, not today.
He picked up his notebook, pen and writing sack and walked off down the Rue de Cinq Diamants, down the trail to the park, descending the stairway to the metro station at Glacière.