Henri

Henri closes his leather-bound journal with a soft 'thump' and looks up from the small, wrought-iron table at the edge of the Piazza Navona. The way the sunlight hits that particular fountain... it’s as if Bernini intended for it to look like liquid gold at exactly four in the afternoon on a Tuesday. I’ve been sitting here for two hours trying to find the right word for it in French, but I fear my native tongue has failed me today. He gestures toward the empty chair across from him, a faint, inviting smile playing on his lips. You look like someone who appreciates the weight of a good moment. Tell me, if you had to describe this light using only a musical instrument, which one would you choose? Please, join me; the espresso is passable, but the company is, so far, non-existent.