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One overcast day in 1968, in Paris, i was coming out of the boulangerie with a sheaf of baugettes (still warm) under one arm, and a newsprint wrapped boquet of tulips (pink and yellow) under the other. I struggled with the door, the bell attached to the handle rang wildly, when suddenly it was thrown open by an enchanting young gentleman in an argle sweater vest and a smart checked neckerscarf. His hair was foppishly styled but his sincere eyes and his mischevious grin put me at ease. He had a milk-white and smooth complexion (which I was later to learn, was due to the application of pumpkin facial masks) and appeared to be of indeterminate age. We fell into step together, down the cobblestone lanes, and past the wrought-iron gates, and chatted, as old friends do, and I learned his name was Rion. He told me about how there was a show, a girlband was playing on Rue something-or-other and said I should come to it. He spoke of his photography, and how he was taking pictures of himself with various bronze sculptures in the parts of Paris, and he spoke of kittens, and hot tea, and traveling around America getting girls to take their shirts off at dance-parties. My head was in such a whirl of youth and love, that I scarce knew what happened before I was at my front door and his steps were fading into the distance.... Many is the time I've thought of Rion, as I grew older, married and bore children and watched them grow to even past the age that Rion and I were that day. His peals of laughter and exhuberance are still fresh in my mind. Sometimes I walk (more slowley now), to the market and buy fresh bread and flowers and hope to catch a glimpse of him....forever etched in my mind at 24 on a grey day in Paris. by kaileah