It's in Paris when she catches a flicker of auburn.
It stuns Mimi into silence, paralysing her dancing green gaze and lively smile. The sight lures her focus from the photographer seated across her in their table of seven—scions of the fashion world shrouded in cigarette smoke, so removed from the town she was raised in and those within.
She squints as she chases the glimpse of the colour; a shade elusive yet familiar. Where did you go? she thinks, narrowing her eyes further. There you are.
Her eyes widen, breath catches.
A little girl, tipped forwards on delicate ankles, awaits her, mane of auburn framing impossibly pale skin leaving her spellbound. The colour is so red, so perfect, that her chest aches—a sore that serves to remind rather than punish, festering with memories unsaid.
She eyes the messy strands alight in the winter sunset, strands which speak of nights spent at the office on leather couches, bloodshot irises softened by quiet pleas and persistent touches; of affectionate fingers curling through scarlet spikes, the scent of oolong tea entwining with cherry; the constant hum of the laptop marrying her unapologetic melody, somehow fitting a room crowded with clothing and gadgets.
Of clashes and compromise.
"Mimi?" the photographer questions, waving his cigarette. "Do you agree?"
Startled, she jolts before schooling her features into a charming smile and uttering an enthusiastic "yes!". The chatter at the table, unfazed, resumes—shielding her like a mask as she trails her sight towards once more, ignoring the strange trepidation within.
She's finished tying her shoelaces, the brunette notices, observing the girl rise to her feet and smile. She blinks, appeased. Her smile is nothing like his—toothy and giving without concern or care; not a quiet grin of triumph, eyes lit up in satisfaction, or a warm smile of acknowledgment. Even yet, her favourite: the smile shared between the two of them, affectionate and unguarded, a hint of laughter beneath his quirked lips.
A flicker of movement interrupts her reminiscing, calling her attention to the blonde man approaching the child. The annoyance in her eyes withers as the girl giggles in delight, launching herself at her father before linking their hands and walking away.
A soft smile curls her lips as reliefs wells within her. Enough daydreaming, she scolds herself, refocusing on the scene around her. He's fine. He's made his choices and you've made yours.
Frowning, she peruses the tea menu handed to her by the blonde waiter. Her gaze lingers on oolong, heady and familiar on her tongue...a scent warm upon her lips and his ski—
"I'll take matcha please," she requests, forcing a smile. Shaking herself out of the embrace of a phantom, of a redhead left behind in a labyrinth of smoke and sea.