Art Gallery
She walks the banks of the Seine every Sunday on her way to the museum, when the mid-morning sun is filtering through the leaves and casting a warm dappled light on the artists who sell their sketches alongside the riverbank.
The Musée D'Orsay is her favourite place in the whole of Paris, and she spends hours meandering around the galleries, mesmerised by the graceful dance of Degas' ballerinas and gazing intently at the swirl of colour in Monet's water-lilies.
One Sunday before Easter she is perched on a bench before the Moulin de la Galette, eyes closed and peacefully soaking up the quiet of the museum, when a small cough right beside her interrupts the tranquil reverie.
"You know, the paintings look much prettier when your eyes are open."
She whips around indignantly to reprimand this patronising stranger, to remind him that art is something to be felt and understood, not simply stared at. But her reproach is cut short in astonishment, for the man looks like he has leapt straight out of one of the paintings, a statuesque vision of marble worthy of Michelangelo himself.
He chuckles as she stomps off hurriedly and haughtily, tripping over both her words and her feet.
(After that, she always runs the banks of the Seine without pause, for it turns out the stranger visits every Sunday, too).