She joined me on a campus bench by the fountain, toward the end of my lunch hour, a stranger. Legs crossed, designer flip flops hanging from slender feet with neatly painted toenails, a cigarette dangling from sophisticated fingers.
When she turned and spoke, I saw that she had smart brown eyes and sleek amber hair pulled back from a face the color and shape of an almond. She was Saudi and smelled faintly of Chanel.
Her name was Violin– a name with a very romantic story behind it, she confided– then proceeded to tell me that she was the love child of a famous French violinist, whose name she could not reveal. I believed her; she had the look of truth about her. I wish I’d had time to hear more of her story, but my lunch hour was over and I said good-bye. I never saw her again.