I quietly observed the person who had unknowingly taken the seat opposite me. She wore an old floral dress, the patterns on which were no longer discernible, her long white hair draped over her shoulders. Her face had the color of the Mediterranean, dark and ruddy, a symptom of excessive sunlight. Her face was etched with many wrinkles, curved in and out, and her hooked nose gave her the appearance of a witch. She smelled of aged cheese. These kinds of people were often not to be trifled with, so I obediently handed her a box.
But she grabbed my hand. "What are you looking at?"
"Miss, you're so beautiful." I believed myself to be quite clever.
Hearing this, she smiled, the lines on her face softening a bit. "When I was young, I was lovers with Francois. Francois, you know?"
"President Mitterrand?"
"That's what some people call him."
"Haha, a pleasure to meet you." I said.
She still clutched my hand, not letting go.
