Diane

Diane serves in the French deli around the corner.

Diane is a dancer.

Diane is about five foot nine.

Just tall enough to stand out as tall, but not so much so that she towers above everyone.

Diane wheres flats (as she calls them), little pumps as I call them.

Diane wheres skirts, almost all the time, in fact I don’t remember seeing her in jeans or trousers.

Diane smiles at me and says my name in a way that makes me melt.

Diane has probably barely noticed me, beyond remembering my name.

Diane has captured my sad and purposeless heart.

Oh Diane, I don’t really eat all those croissants!

I don’t really drink Badoit over priced water.

I don’t really have a clue about pate, cognac, macaroons or chilli relish.

Diane, I just come in to say hello to you.

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