The consummate French bar tender pours the well-heeled Englishman his drink. He knew right away; saw it in his customer’s eyes. Always a giveaway. Discreetly he says bugger all. Keeps it to himself. A reliance on ‘tips’ ensures tact.
Under a tiara of smoke rings, the racy girl perched delightfully upon a bar stool. Nonchalant and available. Her chosen expression, gently lascivious. She is sipping cognac. Her only concern, affordability. Being all too well of the patron at large hovering this way and that, she meticulously follows his path. Only when he’s out of sight will she make her move.
Against a backdrop of floodlit, half-naked dancing girls who she largely ignores; then again, largely appreciates. Such is the way of night life in Paris.
The Englishman spots her before she does him. He orders her another drink, whether she wants it or not. A mere gesture. The Frenchman behind…
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