Jules Laurent glared at the tiny brass bell sharply tinkling as he stepped inside Les Petits Plaisirs de Montmartre. The bell sounded too cheerful for the early hour. 

He moved toward the glass case of neatly lined up macarons and felt a childlike craving for them. The croissants looked tasty too, and he finally settled on the pain au chocolat. 

While waiting in line at the register, his eyes passed on the bustling patrons to rest on a woman seated at a table for two in the corner. She wore a floral dress similar to the faded wallpaper behind her and looked out of place in the trendy cafe. Maybe today wouldn’t end in another blank canvas. 

After receiving his order, he settled into a chair at his own small table to study her further. He was a painter who’d recently hit a wall for his next collection. Other artists had teased him that he saw beauty in peeling paint, but he always laughed it off. For him, inspiration didn’t come from the obvious. 

After enjoying several bites of the pastry,  he set it aside and withdrew the small sketchbook he always kept tucked inside his jacket. 

He began with her prominent eyes, wishing he could move closer. Her nose and lips were delicate in comparison, so he lightened his stroke. He studied her hair for a moment before attempting to capture the tumble of uneven ringlets that didn’t follow any current styles. 

One fellow moved into his line of sight to sweep away the chair opposite his muse without so much as a word. Moments later, a woman unapologetically bumped her table with her oversized bag. His muse simply wiped up the spillage from her jostled cup. 

His grip tightened on his pencil as he continued his sketch, deciding nothing else in the cafe would make the cut. Strangers may not see her, but he did. He drew her lips to the rim of her coffee cup and lifted her eyes to look directly at him. 

Leaning back in his chair, he suddenly saw what had first captured his eye: she was the beautiful quiet in a room full of noise. 

He rose and adjusted his path toward the door to pause at her table. He’d intended to say something, but once she looked up at him, he lost his words. And so, he simply laid the sketch upon her table, offered a quick smile, and walked out the door into the Paris morning sunshine. 

After a restless night’s sleep, he arrived at the cafe the following day, relieved to find her in the corner. He wouldn't mess up his intro this time and found his words. “Good morning, I’m Jules. May I join you?” 

She nodded, and a voice barely above a whisper replied, “I’m Emma.” 

~O~

She chose the location of the first date—Place des Vosges—and he said he’d bring lunch. Not one to usually feel nerves, Jules found his tummy jumping a bit while awaiting her arrival. He paced near the central fountain with a bag of two jambon-beurres tucked underneath his arm and a coffee in each hand. Emma smiled when she saw him and hurried to relieve him of one of the coffees.  

Jukes looked at the ground and groaned. “And… I forgot the blanket.” 

“Blanket? The grass is our blanket,” She plopped down in the grass with no hesitation, briefly adjusting her skirt before patting the ground beside her. “Besides, I like how it tickles.”  

He started to say, “You might stain your dress,” but then noticed a few faint green spots on her skirt already. She obviously didn’t care about such things, and that pleased him. He settled on the grass beside her and handed her a sandwich. As she was about to take a bite, he stopped her. 

“Wait… a toast.” He cleared his throat, then stumbled on to say,  “To… um… picnics… and you.” 

Their eyes met, and he saw a twinkle that wasn't there before; then they tapped their styrofoam cups together. 

It was a lovely afternoon, but more people had the same idea and filled in the green space. Curious to him, he noticed, but she did not. She kept her eyes on him, despite the growing noise around them. She continued to speak in a soft voice, causing him to move closer to hear her words. Despite the public park, their date felt quite intimate, and Jules liked feeling like he was the only one in her small, quiet world. 

The longer they sat together, the more attracted to her he became. She came with no pretences: just a fresh face and a muted floral dress like the one she wore in the cafe. And like the cafe, she seemed content to fade into the natural surroundings, never once checking to see if anyone was watching. Her eyes were solely focused on him, which he found more captivating than other women he’d been with who chased attention. 

When a spot of mustard appeared on her lip, he reached over and wiped it with his finger, then slipped it into his mouth without thinking. She set aside her sandwich and stilled. Her eyes closed and her lips parted in silent invitation—an invitation he gratefully accepted. 

When their lips touched, everything disappeared around them in his mind. They were alone on the beautiful canvas as if Jules had erased everything else from the painting. He opened his eyes to find hers watching as if waiting to see what he would do next. 

“I’d like to do that again,” was all he said before wrapping an arm around her back and folding her into him. 

~O~

The next date began hand-in-hand, silently reading the words at Le Mur Des Je T'aime. Many lovers stood before the wall, a few bumping against them as they moved by, but like on their picnic, Emma seemed to only exist for him.

He watched peace settle over her body. Her eyes blinked slowly, and her small breasts rose and fell in a gentle rhythm. The few faint lines on her face softened. 

“You’re a romantic spirit, aren’t you?”

She didn’t answer directly, but instead offered, “Love is the one thing we all want. All the people, in every country.” She squeezed his hand a little tighter, eyes still fixed on the words of love on the wall. “I’m no different.”

“So… which one would you like whispered in your ear? Ti amo? Ini… iniibig… Kita? I butchered that last one, didn’t I?” 

“Pretty much,” She giggled, and her eyes fell to his lips. “You know… some things can be said without words.” 

“Agree.” He cupped her cheeks with his hands, tracing her lips with his thumbs before tilting his head for a kiss. 

They made love for the first time that night and every night after for months.  

And while she slept in his bed, Jules often slipped away to his studio to paint. It would be his best collection yet, bringing something unnoticed to life. Steady was his hand painting her eyes staring back at him, revealing something different on each canvas. 

He could hardly wait for opening night, and once it arrived, he had left early to oversee the gallery preparations and await her later arrival.

She paused at the gallery window to make out the poster through the drizzling rain. The Beauty of Stillness. Her lover’s name, Jules Laurent, was centered below the title. 

Upon telling her about the showing of his new collection, Jules had purposefully withheld any details. “I want to surprise you,” he’d said. 

Looking forward to seeing him, she stepped inside the gallery, wet shoes slipping a bit on the polished wood floor. Somewhere around the corner, a cello played, but Emma barely noticed because her eyes had locked onto the painting centered on the gray wall. 

She gasped, covering her face as if that would make the painting disappear. It was the cafe where she’d first met Jules. The pastry patrons, although painted in vibrant colors, disappeared in the blurred brushstrokes as if they were moving too fast to capture them in detail. Only her likeness was in focus. She sat alone at a table for two. Every nuance of her was painted with the detail of the finest-point brush. Her eyes startled her the most, looking straight at the viewer as if calling them to step closer. 

She spun around and fled the gallery. Jules rounded the corner just in time to see her slip out the door. Confused, he gave chase, quickly catching up with her. He reached for her arm to stop her. 

“Emma, what’s wrong?” 

She turned to him, choking on her sobs. “Why… you put me out there… for them to gawk at?” 

He staggered backward in shock at her upset. “I just wanted them to see you like I do. What’s wrong with that?”

She dabbed at her tears with her pinkies. “You don’t get it. I never wanted anyone else to see me. Just you.”

He reached for her hand, but she yanked it back. 

“I’m so sorry, Emma.” He stepped closer, trying to lock onto her eyes that looked everywhere but at him. “I’ll pull the paintings… cancel the whole damn thing.”

She shook her head, knowing what it would mean for him and his reputation. “No. Don’t embarrass yourself like that. Just go without me.” 

Before he could answer, she turned her back to him and hurried away. 

With his voice breaking, he called after her, “Emma!” but she didn’t turn around. 

He walked back to the gallery, each step heavier than the last. The show would go on, or she was right that his career would suffer. 

Within an hour, the place buzzed. Art lovers sipped their cocktails and milled about. Some offered him praise, others sank into the velvet benches, quietly contemplating his work. 

A collector approached him and nodded to a painting. “Who is she, Jules?”

Jules thought for a moment about what Emma would want him to say, then answered, “Just quiet inspiration.” No one needed to know more than that. 

He was heading for another glass of champagne when he noticed her leaning against the wall. Emma. He didn’t move, watching her slowly slip along the wall, eyeing one painting after another, never stepping closer. 

Strangely, no one but Jules noticed her, even though her face stared back at them from every painting. He realized too late his mistake. Her presence wasn’t meant to fill a room. Only a single person. And she’d chosen him before he messed everything up.

She met his eyes and offered him a faint smile. For a moment, the paintings disappeared, and it was just them again.