Last Time I Saw Paris
The last time I was in Paris there was a dark haired thirty-something woman, donned in a slim but chunky sweater with a tassled scarf thrown about her neckline. The bottom half of her consisted of dark denim blue jeans in a perfect slim fit and black patent mary janes in a block heel. The thing about her that caught my attention as she stood smoking a cigarette in the 14th arrondissement, were the shoes. The casualness of her semi-frumpy sweater and jeans, the mary janes called for no specific reason to dress up, but in Paris, an occasion can suddenly pop up at any moment.
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