It was a windy spring evening, a bit after nine. We were light with wine and warm from the impromptu meeting of friends at a local bistro. (Our waiter was just like what I imagine Captain Haddok would be like if he was a server). Anna's almost to be one-year-old baby was the evening's shining star, smiling with his 4 bottom teeth, like he approved our choice of appetizers. The evening ended with a profitrole and 8 spoons. Basically, every waiter's dream.
On our walk home, we passed a store front called Madame__________. Of course, this necessitated a conversation of just what kind of madame we would be.
How about madame music? I asked her.
That's too restrictive, she said. And she was right. She was the kind of girl who brought and found pleasure in much more than music. Art. Hiking. Skiing. A well-fitting trench coat. Michelle Obama tickets. And I love her for it. And so she ended up being Madame Plaisir.
I think I'd be Madame chocolate. Or maybe Madame fly by the seat of her pants. Most certainly, Madame dance like you mean it.
Or lately...Madame, what's it all about?
Madame curl up with a good book and giant cup of infusion Grand Sud?
Because nobody's got it figured out.