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Damon looked up from his letter as a young woman brushed past his table. She smiled politely. "Pardon moi." She said in a soft voice as she squeezed past. She selected a table near the rail a few tables away from his own.
He went back to the letter he was writing to his brother, Stefan as the waiter came to take her order. Once he left, she pulled out a small leather bound journal and a blue glass fountain pen. He scribbled a few sentences about the scenery and looked over to the young woman.
She was striking but he couldn't put his finger on what made her so. She was short, petite as the French would say and slender. Not overly thin like the waifish models of the day, the young woman was all gentle curves and muscle. Soft, supple black leather pants molded to muscular thighs and hips. Over this she wore a loose royal blue poet's shirt. Dark combat books finished the outfit.
The waiter interrupted his musings, bringing her a glass of dark red wine. She smiled and thanked him in a way that told him she was used to dealing with servants. Taking a sip, she went back to her journal and he went back to his observations of her.
Exceptionally long black waves cascaded down her back, the sides pulled back in an ornate sliver clasp. As she looked out into the busy Quartier Latin, the intense blue of her eyes struck him. He felt his heart tighten as the memory of a long gone friend came unbidden to him. Shaking it off, he looked back at the young woman. She was young, probably not yet out of her teens but her eyes held an intelligence and maturity beyond her physical age. Her body held grace and power as she scribbled in her journal.
Damon watched her, debating whether to approach her when she suddenly looked up alertly, her face hard and tense. She reached into her black leather trench coat as she scanned the area. After a moment, she smiled brightly and stood up. "Adam! Ici!" She waved and called to someone.
A tall slender man in his late twenties, early thirties sauntered over to the rail. His dark hair was short and his features were sharp, nose a bit big. Damon's brow creased as he watched the mismatched couple embrace and kiss.
The man wore a scruffy gray sweater and jeans under a long black coat. "Hey Asher. Ready to go to Mac's?" He asked in a British accent. She nodded and packed up her bag. Climbing over the rail, she took the man's arm and they walked off, soft laughter floating back to Damon's ears.
Sighing, he went back to his letter. Stefan, you would love it here. The Parisian girls are really something else . . ."