As we meandered through the gardens, Lucie stopped to pick up rocks and examine them. Sophie explained, She likes to find rocks that can write. Sophie shrugged. I watched as Lucie chose another rock and attempted to make a mark on the ground.
She turned to me and said, Madame. I ordered poisson, a word I recalled from years studying ballet. But Lucie kept asking what more I wanted. Sophie, Greg, and I ordered fromage, pancakes with blueberries, beer, croissants, a baguette, salad, french fries, chocolat, and more. Lucie scribbled down our orders with a flourish of her borrowed blue pen. The top page of the notepad filled with loops and wavy lines.
At one point, miming the action of stirring, I asked if she was going to cook the food for us as well. She, it seems, was meant only to ask questions—often the same ones—and to write.
To me, Lucie was a poet. Before I could finish my sentence, the woman behind the Welcome Desk had interrupted me. I had hoped to sort out an issue with my ticket. She acted as if I was attempting to steal a painting. As it was, I circled the desk to talk with another equally rude attendant—increasingly, I became aware of my sore feet. It is a pose ripe with contortion, though it may not seem so at first glance.
The right elbow twists over to the left knee while the right hand holds the heaviness of a human head lost in thought. The feet do not rest flatly on the floor, instead they look as if they might slip from the bronze itself, the toes are racked with gnarled tension.
