India brought her eyes and nose up from the array of hard cheeses to find a very tall, very lanky, very attractive young man in some very interesting brown cowboy boots saddled up next to her holding a ball of shrink-wrapped fresh mozzarella.  India’s heart fluttered a bit, as she had always considered a man who could appreciate a pair of shoes worth her time and attention.”Thanks.  Yours aren’t so bad either.”

“I’ve been looking for a pair of brogued oxfords like those myself.  Where’d you get them?”

India nearly fainted.  A man who knew that an oxford was not the same as a brogue and that a brogued oxford was not a brogue?  This was rarer than any cheese she’d ever found in the dairy section…

Kathy was sheepish.  “Oh, you know I would, but these shoes I’ve got on today — well, I don’t suppose I’ll be able to last even to Blackfriar’s.  Maybe tomorrow, Vicky.”

“What’ve you got there for shoes, Kathy?  They’re absolutely gorgeous!”

“Thank you, Vicky, but — as you can see — they aren’t quite ideal for lunchtime strolls, are they?”

“I suppose not, but they are certainly good for putting a few eyes out on the tube, you saucy little strumpet!  Promise me you’ll wear something more appropros to going out for lunch tomorrow, will you?”

“I promise, Vicky.”

The chill and the gray made the past more vivid and colorful and enticing to think about.  Christiane’s mind began to drift along with the whisperings of the Seine and the clacking of her heels on the stones underfoot.

“I know!  I know!  Nice sweater.”

“You like it?”

“Yeah.  It looks good on you.”

“That’s sweet.”

“And it fits your personality.”

“How so?”

“It makes you look like a cougar.”

“You dummy.  Like a leopard.  I look like a leopard.  Cougars don’t have spots, and if you ever call me old, desperate, and easy again I’ll have your head.”  She waved a finger in his laughing face.  “Your head!”

“Yuri is my good friend.  We knew each other from the old times in high school.  He was not very good at sports!”  Olaf chortled.

“No, I don’t imagine he would be.  He is much too refined for that.”

“Oh, yes — refined.”  Olaf bunched up the thigh of his pant leg in his sweaty palm.  This was not going well.

“Yuri has always been very refined.  Too refined, maybe!”  He chortled again.  The waiter was startled by the boom of Olaf’s laugh.

“And what is it you do now, again?  Yuri said you owned a business?”

“Yes, yes.  I am a contractor. I build everything that needs to be built.  I work with my hands and build, build, build.  And you?”

“I work at the community center.  I don’t do much that interesting there.”

“You must do something interesting, of course.”

“I enjoy theater.  I enjoy balls and fine food.  I work for the Opera.  I help them extensively.  And, of course when I find time, I travel.  It has been years since I was last on a good trip, but the desire is still there.”

“Oh, yes.  Opera.  You are beautiful enough to be in an opera, I think,” ventured Olaf.
Dasha shifted in her seat and tried to conceal a grimace.  The sequins of her jacket were too good for an uncouth man like this, and the sounds they made were far more interesting than anything this Olaf had yet managed to mutter…