A few drops of vanilla slowly infused the dough, like the quiet promise of a dream. At that moment, the foundation was ready for the temple to rise, to enter the heat and submit to the quest of Hephaestus.
She follows the wind and takes no notice of frost. She plays, then disappears; only a discreet warmth and a pleasing scent linger behind.
A rustling; a bag crinkled in his hands. Within, a bottle of Jake Daniel’s, a lemon.
Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, she dances in the evening. A dance bag in her left hand, a water bottle in her right; twenty-five minutes by foot to rue Varenne, then thirty-five minutes back home.
Such was her life for two years.
Today is yet another ordinary day. Avoiding those dirty streets, her camera captures the melancholic street view of Paris through her window, which speaks of two hundred years of history. After living here for five years, she has become a part of Paris.