Friday, February 26, 2010

The French Girl

On my way to lunch with a not-so-old friend the other day, walking up King Street, I passed a table of four biker dudes. They were drinking tall coffees and enjoying the new rare thing around these parts—sun. The window of Cup a’ Joe’s seemed to be full of light and the light toyed with my eyes momentarily as it bounced off the bikers and came to a landing on their four preposterous chrome and steel horses, who stood tied and eating the air. The bikers shared the same uniform—bandanas and black leather, massive forearms tattooed in bruised colors and hard aged faces. Their words drifted toward me as I walked the sidewalk...

“It was the French girl.”

“That girl is NOT French!”

“Yes she is! She’s got the accent and everything!”

I was just past them and “everything” got caught in my ear...what’s everything? For that matter, what’s French everything?

I was imagining everything as I passed the pharmacy window that is plastered with homemade ads...Lost Dog...Hay for Sale...free puppies...and I heard one more thing:

“I’ve never seen THAT one before!”

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