They give pieces of chocolate with their coffee. I have to remember that grazie has turned into merci. A woman with purple horn-rimmed glasses and blunt bangs asked if she could follow me into the boutique. She smelled like a perfume one of my friends wears, but it was too distant to name. The one in which the clothes all have funky geometric patterns in clashing colors. She asked me in French and I didn’t correct her, nor did I know what she was saying. I smiled and she pointed to the door and opened it. I picked up a sweater and she ran a finger down the sleeve and said something in fast french. I imagine it was about the quality of the material. I watched her mouth as she talked. I must have looked intense as I tried to pick up a word or two because she touched my arm and gave a squeeze. She cocked her head to the side, looked at me again and then wrote something down in her notebook. She wrote with a Mont Blanc pen. I wondered how many people she had followed into the store that day. The store was too expensive and I turned to go. She followed me out and asked me to sign something. I asked her in English, forgetting the game, what it was for. She laughed and answered that she was writing a linguistics thesis. She asked if I was spanish because I looked like her friend who lived in Madrid. I signed her slip and wished her the best of luck and gave her a hug, which must have surprised her because she did not move to return the gesture, rather kept one arm holding the notepad to her chest and the other soldier-straight to her colonel mustard yellow pea coat.