3 June 2012
A leaden sky and a watery palette of wind whipped greys.
Shuttered in, cocooned by warmth, the food, the conversation, oblivious to the snow falling silently outside.
On leaving, the door slapping shut, I breathed the silence of the empty streets broken only by my footfalls.
Grainy crunch of too-thin shoes on soft fresh snow.
The white of the Opèra drew me down the Boulevard des Italiens, out of my way, winding through small streets to avoid the desolation of the Place de la Concorde, until my steps crossed into the Jardins des Tuileries. Face to face with the statue, a naked girl resting on her right hip, legs straight, toes pointed, arm held out with fingers cupped.
Entranced, I watched as my hand traced a sensual glissade along the frigid bronze flesh, delicately iced with snow, impervious to my touch.
Glissade • Opuss № I