She was scrunching her eyes, so cutely, trying to see if the pattern was what she thought. Black hair perfectly askew. Red fingernails clinking crystal stemwear holding the last of a fabulous red from Vosne-Romanee. The sulfites and whatnot. She came in closer, scrunched eyes and whatnot. â€śAre thoseâ€¦â€ť â€śYesâ€ť I cut her off. â€śThey are. Shakkas. Hundreds of small purple shakkas.â€ť She whistled low. â€śI thought I was seeing things. Swore I was seeing things. Iâ€™ll tell you, though, I have met some of the worldâ€™s best dressed men on this train.â€ť Her voice was a honeyed Australian mixed with Portuguese. She opened another bottle and poured me some. Her eyes were now wide and swallowing me.
I looked down at my sweater. It really was a piece of art. Globe called it the â€śShakka zip hoodâ€ť which made sense on two levels. There were hundreds of purple shakkas and it was a zip hood. But the name didnâ€™t necessarily capture its essence. Its Ă©lan. I would have called it â€śShakkas on Wool 1. A Study in Contrast.â€ť
The train pulled into Cannes station. She got off before me and looked back once before turning down Rue dâ€™Antibes. Her legs were the color of caramel and the soles of her heels the color of rose.