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Description
Maybe I shouldn't watch people so much. It's not like I really have their consent to observe, but really, if they don't want something they shouldn't do it in public. It's quite simple.

I'm a tour-guide of Paris. As a result, I see people being proposed to every day, but I never know the rest of the story, just the happiest part. It's better that way. I'm the sort of person who hates spoilers.

Right now I'm done with the last of the tours. It's evening, and I only spot one other person who's alone, a man with a cologne ad model's stubble and graceful, big hands who's sketching something. I smile and sit next to him.

"C'est une belle vue," I say obviously. He shuts his book hastily before I can get a glimpse.
"Er…je ne parle bien français. Anglais?"

"Oh, yes! Actually, I'm American, so this is a relief. I'm always afraid I'm making some grammatical faux pas. Paranoia, I guess. Are you an artist?"

His right cheek dimples as his mouth curls up.

"I try."

"Well, I'm intrigued."

I take the sketchbook from his lap and start flipping through it.

"Wait, I-"

"Wow."

It's- me. I'm holding the apple I brought today. My hair is flyaway, my cheeks flushed, and the birthmarks on the right side of my face are prominent. Strangest of all, my eyes are wide, a tiny glimmer in the middle of each, and a single tear reaches my chin. I thought no one saw that; I'm not a loud crier. They usually slip without anyone noticing.

"I'm…I'm not a stalker. I draw people all the time, but you sort of drew me in, and you're one of the only people who's here every day."

"Hey, it's not a big deal. It's just a picture, right?"

"Right," he says, voice puberty-high and strained.

I flip to the next page and- it's me. Again. It's another face portrait. I'm looking over my shoulder and frowning.

I see myself ten more times, once in a dress I don't own, before I close the sketchbook and hand it back to him.

"You know, that was really rude. You don't just take someone's personal- and open- just- forget it."

"No, wait, I mean, I can't see the fascination, but-"

I'm too late. He enters the elevator in the middle of my apology. I've spooked him, stupidly assuming that because he was a guy I couldn't.

***
I sit on my cruddy, rusted balcony, my cat on my lap, and drink in the city. It has an eternal quality like no other. Strangers become lovers here; that's why it's in the background of so many movies. A girl can bike with baguettes in her basket, crash into a prince and fall in love. Napoleon, Hemingway, Madame Olympe, the Phantom of the Opera: all legends in their own right.

I didn't know that, when I signed up for French my freshman year, that I would ever use it except as bait for college admissions. Excepting Haiti, most countries with the national language were first world, thus most of the people were forced to become fluent in English at school. What I didn't account for was their pride and ownership for their own musical language. English was an absolute last resort.

Now, here I am. I have a job that (mostly) pays the bills, yet I feel just as lost as I did in high school.
In high school, I was always the best friend. I brought couples together and helped people on homework. At best I was the "quiet girl", at worst I was "the dyke" because of my short haircut and shapeless clothes. I filled out applications for colleges like everyone else, but unlike everyone else I realized what I most wanted was to get the hell out and let my skills carry me as far as possible.

I was the best friend because I was neither attractive or unattractive: pixie-cut black hair, pale, with a tiny face and slightly pretty green eyes. I wore no makeup(still don't) and didn't try to compete with other girls clothes-wise.

So I can't understand how I could be someone's muse. What is so inspiring about the ordinary visage and the ordinarily restless soul?

I ask this to Kat, touching my nose to hers. Her name is unoriginal, but I feel like I don't have the right to give her a name till I figure out my own life. I share that with Holly Golightly, I suppose.
She doesn't give me an answer, unless you count her rubbing her face in mine.

I look down at a couple walking hand-in-hand. The girl turns to kiss her taller companion. Oh, never mind. It's a long-haired man instead. He has the skin and eyes of an Arabian, that dusky brown and doe-eyed Asiatic fold. It was smart of him to move her, for in his native country homosexuality is still illegal. I wonder why so many people punish love. Maybe it's just to make theirs seem more legitimate.

***
I go to the tower early, when only a few insomniacs are roaming the streets. Shops are closed, but the owners are bustling inside.

When I come out of the elevator, I only see his profile, probably tracing the dawn veiling the roofs and church-bells.

"Good morning," I call.

He turns around and frowns at me, brow knit tightly.

"I wanted to apologize. My curiosity overcomes my politeness sometimes. That's not an excuse, just a flaw. A fact, even."

"Okay."

"Okay. What are you draw-"

I clamp my hand over my mouth.

"I'm sorry, I'll try that again. Have you had breakfast?"

"No," he says, dropping his pencil and scooping it up just as quickly.

"Would you like to have it with me?"

Description
Maybe I shouldn't watch people so much. It's not like I really have their consent to observe, but really, if they don't want something they shouldn't do it in public. It's quite simple.

I'm a tour-guide of Paris. As a result, I see people being proposed to every day, but I never know the rest of the story, just the happiest part. It's better that way. I'm the sort of person who hates spoilers.

Right now I'm done with the last of the tours. It's evening, and I only spot one other person who's alone, a man with a cologne ad model's stubble and graceful, big hands who's sketching something. I smile and sit next to him.

"C'est une belle vue," I say obviously. He shuts his book hastily before I can get a glimpse.
"Er…je ne parle bien français. Anglais?"

"Oh, yes! Actually, I'm American, so this is a relief. I'm always afraid I'm making some grammatical faux pas. Paranoia, I guess. Are you an artist?"

His right cheek dimples as his mouth curls up.

"I try."

"Well, I'm intrigued."

I take the sketchbook from his lap and start flipping through it.

"Wait, I-"

"Wow."

It's- me. I'm holding the apple I brought today. My hair is flyaway, my cheeks flushed, and the birthmarks on the right side of my face are prominent. Strangest of all, my eyes are wide, a tiny glimmer in the middle of each, and a single tear reaches my chin. I thought no one saw that; I'm not a loud crier. They usually slip without anyone noticing.

"I'm…I'm not a stalker. I draw people all the time, but you sort of drew me in, and you're one of the only people who's here every day."

"Hey, it's not a big deal. It's just a picture, right?"

"Right," he says, voice puberty-high and strained.

I flip to the next page and- it's me. Again. It's another face portrait. I'm looking over my shoulder and frowning.

I see myself ten more times, once in a dress I don't own, before I close the sketchbook and hand it back to him.

"You know, that was really rude. You don't just take someone's personal- and open- just- forget it."

"No, wait, I mean, I can't see the fascination, but-"

I'm too late. He enters the elevator in the middle of my apology. I've spooked him, stupidly assuming that because he was a guy I couldn't.

***
I sit on my cruddy, rusted balcony, my cat on my lap, and drink in the city. It has an eternal quality like no other. Strangers become lovers here; that's why it's in the background of so many movies. A girl can bike with baguettes in her basket, crash into a prince and fall in love. Napoleon, Hemingway, Madame Olympe, the Phantom of the Opera: all legends in their own right.

I didn't know that, when I signed up for French my freshman year, that I would ever use it except as bait for college admissions. Excepting Haiti, most countries with the national language were first world, thus most of the people were forced to become fluent in English at school. What I didn't account for was their pride and ownership for their own musical language. English was an absolute last resort.

Now, here I am. I have a job that (mostly) pays the bills, yet I feel just as lost as I did in high school.
In high school, I was always the best friend. I brought couples together and helped people on homework. At best I was the "quiet girl", at worst I was "the dyke" because of my short haircut and shapeless clothes. I filled out applications for colleges like everyone else, but unlike everyone else I realized what I most wanted was to get the hell out and let my skills carry me as far as possible.

I was the best friend because I was neither attractive or unattractive: pixie-cut black hair, pale, with a tiny face and slightly pretty green eyes. I wore no makeup(still don't) and didn't try to compete with other girls clothes-wise.

So I can't understand how I could be someone's muse. What is so inspiring about the ordinary visage and the ordinarily restless soul?

I ask this to Kat, touching my nose to hers. Her name is unoriginal, but I feel like I don't have the right to give her a name till I figure out my own life. I share that with Holly Golightly, I suppose.
She doesn't give me an answer, unless you count her rubbing her face in mine.

I look down at a couple walking hand-in-hand. The girl turns to kiss her taller companion. Oh, never mind. It's a long-haired man instead. He has the skin and eyes of an Arabian, that dusky brown and doe-eyed Asiatic fold. It was smart of him to move her, for in his native country homosexuality is still illegal. I wonder why so many people punish love. Maybe it's just to make theirs seem more legitimate.

***
I go to the tower early, when only a few insomniacs are roaming the streets. Shops are closed, but the owners are bustling inside.

When I come out of the elevator, I only see his profile, probably tracing the dawn veiling the roofs and church-bells.

"Good morning," I call.

He turns around and frowns at me, brow knit tightly.

"I wanted to apologize. My curiosity overcomes my politeness sometimes. That's not an excuse, just a flaw. A fact, even."

"Okay."

"Okay. What are you draw-"

I clamp my hand over my mouth.

"I'm sorry, I'll try that again. Have you had breakfast?"

"No," he says, dropping his pencil and scooping it up just as quickly.

"Would you like to have it with me?"