The Dimpled Twin {✔}

I

I woke into a fog of memories, of last night, of how I had ended up in these sheets and a haze of wine. Everything here in the Parisian hotel I was staying at smelled of wine. It was a proper five-star continental, only the best for the Vose Galleries envoy. It was the job of a lifetime, a young 50s art student given the task of going to Paris and purchasing European pieces that would be the centerpiece of our new collection, Remembrances of Europe. Not only would it make my resumé an enviable work of art itself, but it allowed me to be able to enjoy the rich culture, gastronomy, art, and people of Paris, all paid for by the Gallery. But so far, the best part of the trip was this young Parisian who had begun to court me. Yes, right, that's where I was last night, with him. His name was Avellino, and he had been showing me Paris with the insider knowledge of one who's grown up in the smoky streets.

We had gone bicycling to the outskirts of town to have picnics, snuck into bars and clubs we weren't allowed to through his strange connections with all sorts of, let me say, unconventional people. I had never been allowed to experience these things back home in the US. They were "unbecoming" in my family, and I never wanted to disappoint them. Avellino had also been teaching me more French, and I had been teaching him some German and English. Last night, he had taken me to the Eiffel tower and used only a mere nod at the elevator man to give us special priority to the top. He held my waist as we sipped a bottle of champagne produced from his coat jacket. Then, at almost one in the a.m, he took me back to my hotel room, and we waltzed down the hallway and fell on the bed, sighing.

I remember running my fingers through his dark hair that was constantly windswept from his motorcycling hobby, staring at his smooth skin with cheekbones cut from marble. He had no stubble, no blemishes except for a glorious dimple that I loved to lay my finger on. I sat up. The sheets still smelled like him, a quixotic scent of leather and oil.

"Gosh, I'm going to be late," I exclaimed, looking at the silver-plated alarm clock that was on the bedside table. The museum expected me at 8, and it was already 7:50. I jumped up and hurried to get ready, grabbed a hunk of baguette and jam a maid had left on the counter. I raced out the door and managed to catch a streetcar that had started to pull away. Just my luck, it was headed towards the museum. I shoved my hat on my head to contain my unruly hair. I held on to my dresses' hem that was threatening to lift due to the breeze from standing on the outside of the tram and clasped the rail tightly.

As soon as I arrived at the Musee d'Orsay, the directors' assistant, Marguerite Anouilh, a neurotic little woman of 40 who spoke English, and thus was tasked with helping me with my assignments from the Vose Gallery.

"Mademoiselle Stella '', she greeted my curtly, probably because I was 10 minutes late. "There is much to see today. We have a new shipment of paintings that the Director said you should look at". 

I nodded, "Merci, pouvez-vous m'emmener avec eux maintenant?", I said, thanking her and then asking if she would take me to them in stunted French. If my use of French surprised her, she hid it well, only looking mildly impressed.

"Bien sûr, de cette façon", Of course, this way, she replied.

Once we were in the museum, I got a chance to look around. The high glass ceiling let the late August light in, casting shadows from the quartz exhibit holders. She took me to a workroom where boxes held paintings and statues.

"Here, I will come back at noon," she told me, leaving me to the dusty room.

"Merci," I murmured as she left, then I sighed and began examining the delicate works, where I would stay for the next 4 hours. It's not that I disliked the job, it's just the idea of roaming the Parisian streets on an adventure with my Avellino was much more enchanting. I hoped I could see him on my lunch break. But alas, my duty to the Gallerie was to find pieces to display, so I needed to start observing and taking notes.