Windblown, her hair gives her a wistful air. That, and the scarf bunched around her neck, its emerald and indigo echoing her eyes. We’d met at a movie. Taxi to Portugal. Came to this café afterwards. She’s back in Bucharest for the holiday—just finished her first year of Film School in Paris.
Neither broad cheek bones and wide-set eyes nor a dark Latin scintillation, she’s a Saxon beauty: Bucharest is a melting pot.
I give her my hand: She takes it. I think of the architecture of Bucharest. Venetian palazzi with French mansards, Turkish balconies and Scottish turrets: No matter how you mix it up, suffering is the same.