Writing class exercise

April 21. 2020 - Writing class exercise

Prompt was: April is my favorite month

Of course, I deviated from the prompt - made it my own. Nothing new about that!  As soon as I was given it, the song, April in Paris started to play in my head.  It is always fun to have a little bit of imaginary romance on a lonely Tuesday in April.

April in Paris

         “Ah yes, April in springtime . . .” the gent behind me sighed and then suddenly switched from English to French. Sounded like fluent French to me, but what would I know as an unsophisticated American. I’d thought the gent was an Englishman; he sure sounded like it at the get-to-know-you cocktail party in Dover, England, two days ago.

         The pert travel director, with double dimples, lucky to be born that way, announced, “The bus will be moving to the large parking area, further up to the left. You may return early, if you wish, but please, everyone, please return by 3:00 p.m.” She tossed her dark hair back from her face and sparkled another smile switching into French for the rest of the group.

         I doubted she needed to bother, I found most Europeans knew English just as well as their native tongue.  I rose and stepped forward in the aisle to let the tiny women near the window join her friend seated behind me with the English gent.  They had both wanted window seats and I and the Gent had been graciously accommodating.

         I paused a moment and reached up to retrieve the T-handled umbrella, I had brought just in case, not expecting I’d be using it daily.  Still overcast,  still mist or possibly drizzle, I cinched the waist of my trench coat, flipped up my collar and disembarked the tour bus.

         I avoided the puddle below the stairs with a nimble jump saving my last pair of dry shoes; there is nothing worse than wet, cold feet.  Skipping between puddles, I drifted away from the crowd taking in the panorama view of the square.

         Oh, how lovely, a wobbly reflection of waffle weaved iron and one curve of the foundation in a large puddle at my feet.  Hoping to capture it with my digital camera, I fished my camera out of my pocket and took several shots.

         Reviewing what I had taken, the English gent, I assumed he was English, was hovering behind me. Being tall he was easily peering over my shoulder, “Well done, you captured it,” he said with gusto.

         I glanced over my shoulder and flashed a smile and nod for the compliment.

         “We meet earlier but lately I am dreadful with names . . . .” he started to apologize.

         “It’s Teri, or rather, now that we are in Par-EE I guess it’s Ter-EE.”

         He laughed and flipped his collar up and pulled a folded hat out of his pocket and jammed it on his head scanning the skies.

         The mist gave way to drizzle, but I didn’t want to put up my umbrella, as I wanted to see it all in my trip of a life time. I swept my newly purchased silk scarf out of my collar and wrapped it around my head Audrey Hepburn style, while holding my umbrella tightly between my knees.

         He softly said, “Chic,” and continued, “are you going to ride up or walk?”

         “I’m going to climb it, might take a little while, you know for the lasting experience of it.”

         We set off walking briskly, but again, I stopped a moment and captured the scene of wet tourists with the icon in the distance.

        

         “Shame no sun is expected today,” he ventured as he paused with me.

         “Who cares, Paris is Paris, besides my memory photos will be unique, Caption: Eiffel Tower in the rain,” I said with a smirk, closing my camera, and stashing it back in my trench coat pocket.

         “Ah, that’s the American Spirit, I was worried there a moment,” he tipped his fingers to his hat and said, “Maurice,”

         “Morris,” I repeated to fix it in my memory and we walked on.

         “No actually, Maurice, a different spelling, not like Morris the cat. I was born here, moved to England during my career.”

         I laughed, “You’ve been across the pond then,” up turning my face to assess his demeanor

         “Yes, often, and I believe you and I are the only two on this tour that are unattached, single, otherwise available,” he said with shear confidence, his hazel eyes twinkling.

         “Oh,” I mumbled charmed by his flirtations, and softly started to sing, “April in Paris.”

         His baritone chimed in, “Chestnuts in blossom,” then pausing he said, “let me see if I can remember the rest, April in Paris, this is a feeling . . .”

         Securing my elbow, he ushered me forward like found-again lovers continuing to sing.

         This might be an interesting trip, after all.