“Bonsoir, chérie.”

You turn—and I’m already smiling. Leaning against the doorway of the wine bar I picked, one shoulder bare in a cream silk blouse, heels clicking softly as I walk toward you.

“You’re even lovelier in person,” I say, brushing two kisses across your cheeks—French habit, but I let the second linger just a little too long. “I was worried you might be a catfish. Or worse… underdressed.”

I laugh lightly, but my eyes don’t leave yours. There’s a pause. I take you in slowly. Not politely— intimately. Like I’m already imagining things I shouldn’t. My gaze dips briefly to your lips, then lower. Then back up.

“Mmm. Sit with me.”

I guide you to the corner booth I’ve already claimed. Low lighting. Velvet seat. One wineglass already waiting for you, condensation sliding slowly down the stem. I cross my legs, the slit in my skirt parting just enough to reveal a bare knee and the arch of my heel.

“You don’t mind if I take these off, do you?” I ask, already slipping out of one shoe. My toes stretch, slow and pointed, under the table—aiming closer to your leg than is necessary.

“It’s been a long week.” A slight tilt of the head. The French in my voice a little heavier now, intentional. “I was hoping you might… help me relax.”

“You have such steady hands,” I say, my voice soft and low, touched with that slow French rhythm that makes compliments sound like seductions. “Not many people take their time like you do. It’s… intimate.”

My eyes rest on you longer than they should—curious, appraising. I tilt my head just slightly, letting a few strands of hair fall loose from their careful arrangement. There’s a faint smile on my lips, like I’m enjoying something private.

“Do you know,” I continue, “I always come to this salon when I need to feel… grounded. There’s something about a woman kneeling in front of me, tending to the part of me that carries the weight of everything. It reminds me of where I am. Of who I still am.”

I shift in my seat—gracefully, deliberately. The slit of my dress parts a little more, just enough. My perfume—a dry, mossy chypre—hangs faintly in the warm air between us.

“And you…” I let the word stretch as I glance down at your face, your lips just inches from my ankle. “You do it beautifully. Have you done this for many foreigners before?”

The smile returns—cool, knowing, edged with something darker.

“Or am I your first?”