Marion the Divine

Across the street from the cafe was a restaurant that had just finished setting up for service. A server from the restaurant paused for a moment to look down the narrow street. Marion followed his gaze. A tall woman wearing a black coat, oval sunglasses, and low-chunky heels sauntered toward the restaurant. Marion studied her. The way her feet clopped on the ground was imperfect and yet so very elegant. Clip-clop-clip-clop. Her footsteps sent a signal to those in her view.

The woman made her way to the restaurant and sat at one of the open outdoor tables, her white blonde hair coming loose from being tucked into the back of her coat as she rested lightly across the opposite chair. Everything felt effortless from the ribbed black dress that hugged her voluminous hips to the deep red lipstick applied without considering a mirror. Her eyebrows stood out even from Marion’s distant position. They were dark, much darker than her bordering-on silver hair that was now tucked behind each ear, resting right below her shoulders. The short-sleeved ribbing moved with each delicate motion of her arms — both bare except a rose and stem line tattoo that faced front on her right forearm. She didn’t even try to catch the attention of the servers — they were already at her table placing down utensils, water, and a filled wine glass. Marion tried to look at the rest of the scenery, the flowers, the petite store fronts, the people passing through. But she couldn’t. The woman was too fascinating.

Marion took another sip of her cappuccino and flipped the page in her notebook to suddenly start sketching lips—so many lips that the page looked like it had been kissed over and over. She felt silly — to be drawing something so elementary when anyone who has ever sat at a French cafe should be writing sensual poems to one of their many lovers. Marion was too careful, too concerned. Was it even worth being in Paris if she was just going to sit at a cafe and watch the world go by? 

Suddenly, Marion’s hand swayed and knocked her pen to the ground. The woman across the street took notice as Marion slowly shimmied down to rescue the pen. She gazed at Marion with an endearing smirk. As Marion returned upright, she locked eyes with the woman across the narrow street. 

The woman turned to the waiter and whispered something in his ear. Marion felt warm, silly again, self-conscious. The waiter walked across the street toward Marion, who gripped the crystal-clear table — her thighs still clearly on display.

“Madame would like for you to join her. She has offered to pay for your drink and relocation.” Marion, stunned, answered quietly. “Oui . . . Yes, I will be right there.” The waiter placed euros down on the table and softly gathered Marion’s coat. She turned and waved to her hot waiter — she’d remember him fondly — and followed her new waiter.

On the other side of the street, Marion stood in front of the table unsure of what to do. The woman stared at her and said, “So, what brings you to Paris?” The waiter pulled out a seat and gestured for Marion to sit. Marion nodded and accepted the seat. The woman smelled sweet, like pastries fresh out of an oven. 

“I needed a change in scenery.”

“No, that’s not it,” the woman declared. “You’re looking for more out of your life.” Marion blushed a little and noticed the tattoo that lived on the inside of the woman's wrist as she sipped her wine. An outline of a heart. Marion felt bold. “Why did you ask me to join you?"

The woman didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she stared at Marion for what felt like hours, but could have only been 30 seconds — her eyes roaming Marion’s soft face and black velvet dress. “Have you found what you’re looking for here in Paris?" Marion responded: “I’m not entirely sure what I’m looking for, if I’m honest. But you still didn't answer my question." 

A red wine appeared in front of Marion, “I didn’t order this.”

“It’s from me," said the woman. "It's a pity to sit at a café in Paris and not drink wine, non?” The woman’s hand reached to Marion’s and grazed the top of her palm — her fingers tapping lightly. Marion felt the electricity glide from the woman's hand to hers. She shivered in her dress, and her thighs pressed together. Marion stared at the woman across the table and smiled. “You’re very beautiful. Are you from here?”

“Thank you. I’m just a woman who lives around the corner. You’re my special guest. I should be asking you the questions.” 

Marion blushed bright. It was difficult for her to control. 

"So tell me about you, Red."

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