It was a lovely spring Paris afternoon. I sat in the same chair at the same table I always sit in. Jacques, the waiter, brought me my usual cognac. I opened my sketch book. My eyes moved from table to table to table, searching for something, or someone, to draw. Several tables away, a woman shyly glanced over at me with those round eyes of hers, eyes as blue as the French sky that canvassed our afternoon. She wore a demure smile. Her lips I imagined speaking softly, breaking the heart of her last lover. My hand began its magic. The pencil drew. Soon I finished a page, then a second. Ten, fifteen empty pages I filled. The woman rose and walked my way. She said nothing, but passed me by, then she was gone. It was a lovely spring Paris afternoon.