[align=center][div style="0px; width:400px; height:auto; text-align: justify; font-size: 8pt; line-height:13px;"]you can ask how this came to be if you want to but i though of this today based off a thing my friend said and i'm just really happy i'm writing again
Claudelle "Claudie" La Prince sat quietly and politely on the corner of the French cafe, a copy of Hemmingway's The Sun Also Rises resing between the fingers of her left hand, while the right mindlessly kept hold of a half-smoked cigarette. The breeze blew quickly through the somewhat empty street, which was strange for a Saturday. Most people from her rich neighborhood had already left Paris, as rumors about Germany's military expansion were alarming enough to send the wealthy scampering off to England or other further nations like Norway or the United States. The nineteen-year-old was determined to stay as long as possible to finish her university tenure, as studying literature was her one true passion in life and she insisted on staying until the professor forced her to leave.
Her mary-jane leather shoes tapped aimlessly against the metal table, her eyes barely paying attention to the oncoming figure approaching her. Claudie's dark brown bobbed hair was covered on top with a black beret, keeping her appearance almost stereotypically French, but she could've cared less, there was hardly anyone lurking around anyway. The figure stopped at her table and at first she assumed it was the waiter so she, without looking up, said instinctively "merci monsieur, mais je n'ai besoin de rien" (thank you sir but I do not need anything) but when no reply was given nor did the figure move she was forced to look up.
He was young, likely twenty, tall, and clean shaven with inquisitive grey eyes and a soft yet trimmed mop of somewhat curly brown hair. "est-ce que je peux vous aider?" (can I help you?) she asked instinctively, unknowing to why he had decided to make his way over to her table. She had not seen him earlier when she had sat down but then again, her face had been hidden by a book for the past hour so it was unlikely she would've noticed him before anyway.
"Oh um, bonjour" he managed to say, suddenly trying to finish the rest of his sentence but taking a pause to rack his brain for his next words, "Je vois le livre. J'aime Hemingway." (an attempt at "I noticed your book. I love Hemingway.") he managed to say. The french was terribly done but somewhat grammatically correct, his hard American accent mixing with the soft eloquent language made it obvious. Claudie held back a slight smile at the American, his French was practically broken but she could tell he was trying.
"Vraiment? La façon dont il écrit sur l'amour et la perte est si simpliste et même sans beaucoup de mots,," (Really? The way he writes about love and loss is so simplistic and even without a lot of words,) she said almost excitedly, closing her book but leaving her thumb between the pages to mark her spot, "il parvient toujours àtout dire et plus." (he always manages to say everything and more.) she finished, taking a pull of her cigarette before smothering it in the ashtray. Claudie turned her head and blew out the smoke, turning back to the American who she was sure was trying to mentally translate what she had said. "I am reading it for school," she said in very French-accented English. A look of relief swept across the guy's face.
"I am- I was an exchange student from the United States. My name is Vincent, Vincent O'Brien," he said, sticking his hands in the pockets of his high waisted trousers. "I'm studying here in Paris and, um, like I said I love Hemingway." he finished, his grey eyes glancing down at the cover of her book before looking into hers. "Can I buy you a macchiato or a cappuccino?" he asked her, lightly rocking back on his lace-up oxfords.
He was cute and there were little things Claudie kept noticing the more she looked at him. He had bags under his eyes and the sleeves of his oxford shirt were sloppily rolled up like he had been working on something very late at night for a very long time (he was studying to be a journalist or trying to anyway. getting his degree in English and subconsciously attempting to avoid writing a draft in the process). Claudie smiled and closed her book completely, folding the corner of the page she had been holding. "Vincent?" she repeated, letting the name move through her voice. She didn't know it but Vincent loved the way it sounded in Claudie's french. "I'm Claudie and yes, I would love a macchiato," she replied, moving some out of place hair behind her right ear.
Vincent's face lit up with a smile as he disappeared back into the cafe to get the coffee order. He reappeared within a couple minutes carrying two white ceramic plates with matching mugs resting soundly on top. He returned to the table and sat down, a little hesitant as he was not only balancing two hot drinks but was also not explicitly invited to sit with her however it was implied so he followed through.
Claudie picked up her mug of coffee and took a refined sip before looking back at Vincent sitting opposite her, "so monsieur, what do you like about Hemingway?" she asked, leaning slightly against the table, reducing the space between them. Claudie found herself unexpectedly happy to finally not be sitting by herself, and she was not alone in that notion either.
Claudelle "Claudie" La Prince sat quietly and politely on the corner of the French cafe, a copy of Hemmingway's The Sun Also Rises resing between the fingers of her left hand, while the right mindlessly kept hold of a half-smoked cigarette. The breeze blew quickly through the somewhat empty street, which was strange for a Saturday. Most people from her rich neighborhood had already left Paris, as rumors about Germany's military expansion were alarming enough to send the wealthy scampering off to England or other further nations like Norway or the United States. The nineteen-year-old was determined to stay as long as possible to finish her university tenure, as studying literature was her one true passion in life and she insisted on staying until the professor forced her to leave.
Her mary-jane leather shoes tapped aimlessly against the metal table, her eyes barely paying attention to the oncoming figure approaching her. Claudie's dark brown bobbed hair was covered on top with a black beret, keeping her appearance almost stereotypically French, but she could've cared less, there was hardly anyone lurking around anyway. The figure stopped at her table and at first she assumed it was the waiter so she, without looking up, said instinctively "merci monsieur, mais je n'ai besoin de rien" (thank you sir but I do not need anything) but when no reply was given nor did the figure move she was forced to look up.
He was young, likely twenty, tall, and clean shaven with inquisitive grey eyes and a soft yet trimmed mop of somewhat curly brown hair. "est-ce que je peux vous aider?" (can I help you?) she asked instinctively, unknowing to why he had decided to make his way over to her table. She had not seen him earlier when she had sat down but then again, her face had been hidden by a book for the past hour so it was unlikely she would've noticed him before anyway.
"Oh um, bonjour" he managed to say, suddenly trying to finish the rest of his sentence but taking a pause to rack his brain for his next words, "Je vois le livre. J'aime Hemingway." (an attempt at "I noticed your book. I love Hemingway.") he managed to say. The french was terribly done but somewhat grammatically correct, his hard American accent mixing with the soft eloquent language made it obvious. Claudie held back a slight smile at the American, his French was practically broken but she could tell he was trying.
"Vraiment? La façon dont il écrit sur l'amour et la perte est si simpliste et même sans beaucoup de mots,," (Really? The way he writes about love and loss is so simplistic and even without a lot of words,) she said almost excitedly, closing her book but leaving her thumb between the pages to mark her spot, "il parvient toujours àtout dire et plus." (he always manages to say everything and more.) she finished, taking a pull of her cigarette before smothering it in the ashtray. Claudie turned her head and blew out the smoke, turning back to the American who she was sure was trying to mentally translate what she had said. "I am reading it for school," she said in very French-accented English. A look of relief swept across the guy's face.
"I am- I was an exchange student from the United States. My name is Vincent, Vincent O'Brien," he said, sticking his hands in the pockets of his high waisted trousers. "I'm studying here in Paris and, um, like I said I love Hemingway." he finished, his grey eyes glancing down at the cover of her book before looking into hers. "Can I buy you a macchiato or a cappuccino?" he asked her, lightly rocking back on his lace-up oxfords.
He was cute and there were little things Claudie kept noticing the more she looked at him. He had bags under his eyes and the sleeves of his oxford shirt were sloppily rolled up like he had been working on something very late at night for a very long time (he was studying to be a journalist or trying to anyway. getting his degree in English and subconsciously attempting to avoid writing a draft in the process). Claudie smiled and closed her book completely, folding the corner of the page she had been holding. "Vincent?" she repeated, letting the name move through her voice. She didn't know it but Vincent loved the way it sounded in Claudie's french. "I'm Claudie and yes, I would love a macchiato," she replied, moving some out of place hair behind her right ear.
Vincent's face lit up with a smile as he disappeared back into the cafe to get the coffee order. He reappeared within a couple minutes carrying two white ceramic plates with matching mugs resting soundly on top. He returned to the table and sat down, a little hesitant as he was not only balancing two hot drinks but was also not explicitly invited to sit with her however it was implied so he followed through.
Claudie picked up her mug of coffee and took a refined sip before looking back at Vincent sitting opposite her, "so monsieur, what do you like about Hemingway?" she asked, leaning slightly against the table, reducing the space between them. Claudie found herself unexpectedly happy to finally not be sitting by herself, and she was not alone in that notion either.
[align=center][div style="width: auto; font-size: 9pt; font-family: arial; color: black; letter-spacing: 1px;"][i]etherial, almost ghostly ― [color=black]info