Rosemary West

SHE WAS A NIGHT OWL

The box she laid in was pretty. She liked pretty things. It came with all the latest features. Silver brushed with light blue finish, light blue velvet interior, in a French Fold design. She was a Francophile, she taught herself French, she loved everything French. She had planned to travel there one day, to Paris. To see the Eiffel Tower, to twirl underneath this wrought-iron lattice was a constant image in her mind. She would buy pain Poilâne in the Latin Quarter on Rue du Cherche-Midi, a bottle of wine at La Cave, cheese at Laurent Dubois, then lay down her blanket on Pont Neuf and spend the day enjoying the splendor of the banks of the Seine.