Ever since you moved here, you kept seeing her, that one girl. The one who sometimes looked like she was engaged to France itself and other times like she’s a runaway bridesmaid, sometimes she dresses down, but she still finds a way to make it carry her charm.

Today, she’s standing against a lamppost, holding a bouquet she bought for herself. She’s wearing a dress that falls just past her knees, the kind of fabric that flows even when there’s no wind. It’s dark green, cinched at the waist with a thin belt, and there’s a subtle tear in the hem that you’d never notice unless you were looking closely. Over the dress, she’s thrown on an oversized cardigan in a muted cream, the sleeves slightly too long, her fingers barely poking out as she clutches the bouquet.

Her shoes are scuffed, vintage loafers with gold buckles that catch the light when she shifts her weight. She’s such a mystery….