Golden hour. Your favorite time of day, when everything is softly gilded by the light of the soon-to-set sun, and the world is at once alive and asleep. The sound of your heels echoed off the cobblestoned streets, and you sighed contentedly to yourself. Nothing made you feel more alive than spending a day wandering the city, hopping on and off random buses, walking through the parks by yourself, people watching and listening to your favorite music.

Passing your favorite coffee shop, you lingered for a second, considering stopping in for a little while, but you really should be getting home to get some work done. As you ambled across Pont St. Louis, you felt yourself slowing to a stop. Leaning against the stone of the bridge, you looked across the Seine, drinking in the beauty of this time of day. There was something about the wind pulling at your hair and your scarf, combined with the bright autumn foliage that made you want to stay and watch the world pass by as you looked over the water.

He put his sketchbook down and sighed contentedly, taking a sip from his almost-cold coffee. He flipped through the last few pages, happy with the work that he’d made today. This coffee shop is a good place to come observe, he thought to himself, and mentally promised that he would be back. He was about to start packing his things away when he looked up, grateful for the amazing lighting during golden hour. That’s when he saw her.

Looking out over the river, he could only see her face in profile, but the way it was lit up, and the way the wind was blowing… He quickly fumbled through his bag, looking for his charcoal. One hand digging through the bag and the other frantically flipping to a fresh page, he looked up again, trying to commit the scene to memory. Her long black hair struggling to escape her scarf, her softly billowing trench coat over a black dress and leggings, and those booties that were all the rage – how much more stereotypically Parisian could a person look? He desperately sketched and smudged and shaded, Please don’t leave please don’t leave please don’t leave echoing over and over in his head. He already knew this was going to be his best piece yet of the day and if she left in the middle… No, he couldn’t think about that, he just had to keep looking up and looking down and looking up, fingers covered with charcoal dust, the image coming to life on the page.

With a final glance at the girl on the bridge, it was finished. He looked down at it and smiled. It really was the best one he’d done all day. He was proud of how he had caught the shadows on her face and the motion of the wind. He ran a hand through his hair, forgetting that it was covered in charcoal dust, and looked back up at the girl.

She had all but disappeared.

Hurriedly, without even realizing what he was doing, he threw all his supplies into his bag, slapped four euros down on the table, and ran out the door. He wanted, no, needed, to catch up to her. There wasn’t a single thought about what he would do or say, once he caught up, but he knew he had to talk to her, at least see her entire face, not just in profile.

You were almost at the metro station when you felt a weight on your shoulder. When you turned around, you were greeted with a smile by a pretty, petite man. As you pulled your headphones out of your ears, you heard him say, “-rry, I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

You smiled back, “No problem, how can I help you?”

“Ah, so, um – “ he struggled with his things, shifting his coat from  under one arm to the other, and trying to pull out his sketchbook, which had gotten caught on his fluffy blue turtleneck. He blushed as he tried to disengage it, and you stifled a laugh. It was really quite cute to witness, and the lazy glow of the setting sun lit up his features just so.

When he finally got his sketchbook out, he was in the process of opening it up when a huge gust of wind took you both by surprise. Your scarf was pulled away from you, and his sketchbook also went flying. When the wind stopped, the two of you went to retrieve your things. Somehow, you ended up with his sketchbook, and he with your scarf.

“Let’s trade,” you suggested, and he laughed, handing you your scarf as you returned his sketchbook.

“Thanks for grabbing my scarf,” you said as you turned to leave.

“Wait!” he called, panicked.

You looked back in surprise as he opened up his sketchbook and hastily tore out a page.

“Um. I wanted you to have this,” he told you, looking down at his feet.

You threw him a questioning glance and then looked down at the piece of paper he had given you.

It was you… But beautiful. Even in black and white, the scene on the page seemed complete and alive and full of the emotion you had felt while standing on the bridge, looking over the Seine. You looked like the perfect moment, captured in of back and smudges of gray.

“This is beautiful! How did you –“ you looked up to ask the man about his art and how he made you look so beautiful when you were really so ordinary, but he had already gone.

You could see his retreating form, headed back over the bridge you had just come off of, and shook your head in wonder

Paris was full of artists, but you had never been a muse before.