Super model nights

On one of the antique mirrors at Lapérouse, Kate Moss has left a message for the after world: "it's 2 late 2 go 2 bed" she wrote, or carved in with something really sharp.

I tell him that story over dinner, he looks at me like he's found something to admire. I'm not sure what thar is but know better than to ask. When we walk through the Jardin des Tuileries after sunset he takes my hand and holds it in his without saying a single word.

It's a beautiful night but then again, nothing lasts forever.

Lutetia

He comes to my room the day after, it should be too easy but I really felt the need to have him there.

I ask him what to wear and he picks out the perfect dress: short and black from Givenchy, Tisci's masterpiece in the softest of satins. We empty the bar at Joséphine, then head for Saint Germain in search of a place to call home. 

I haven't felt the need to watch the sun come up this strong since I left LA for what feels like a lifetime ago.

We are a storm

I don't know who spots who first. I'm in black from Lanvin, he sits at the table next to me, writing something with a glittery tourist shop ball-point pen on ivory paper. By the sheer focus I can tell it matters to him.

"What are you writing" I ask as he looks up for a fraction of a second, disturbed by a waiter putting down drinks.

"I'm not sure", he replies, "but I know how it's going to end."

"How can you know that?"

"Because it's all true."

I let the smoke from my cigarett rise slowly towards the blackening Paris skies, it's getting late but this night was clearly made for conversations over countless glasses of Burgundy wine.

"I'm Avy", I say, "nice to meet you."