Sounds crass, but truly I did
catch sight of her across a crowded room –
a posh cocktail affair. Her dress, backless –
one of those little black numbers.
She seemed different from the rest.
As one does, I mingle, but it’s not
my scene. Hooray-Henries most of them.
Next thing I know she’s standing beside me –
long brown hair; her eyes a matching
shade of tawny.
“Like another drink?” I ask,
pointing to her glass.
“Mais, oui!” she responds.
I swallow, hard – attempt to nod convincingly,
as if I understand her every word.
Her name was Collette – from Paris.
Whatever else she said, I hadn’t a clue.
The most I could do was to smile back …
in my best French accent.