Paris is a woman, in her early thirties. She drinks champagne and she wears too much mascara. She writes to-do lists full of things she’ll never do, she spends long afternoons lying under the sun. She loves bright lights, fashion and those little umbrellas in the colorful coktails she likes to drink sometimes. She loves olives. She’s blonde. She’s beautiful, but not when she wears make-up, nor when she wears fancy dresses, no. She’s beautiful when you wake her up, when she’s still calm and fresh from the night, with puffy eyes and lazy veins. She’s poorer than she looks though. She’s not all luxury and expensive joileries. Sadly, she smokes too much. And she’s in love of course. She falls in love with men, gentlemen with manners and nice suits. She falls in love with other women, with red lipstick and dark curls.
Paris is that french young woman who’s perpetually in love, when not angry.