Note: This is an excerpt from a story I wrote while living in France at turn of the millennium. A story about blue jeans and a woman who designs them. And wears them rather well. To read the full story contact me and specify “Jeans” in the your message.
Maybe I should just break the narrative after the e-mail. Cut straight to the café where we met tonight.
She was late. I was already sitting at a table outside with a beer when she arrived. Christ, she was great looking. Really beautiful. One of those ultra-tony, model types. Tall and willowy; dressed to dazzle. BCBG—bon chic, bon genre. Movie star sunglasses, a flowing white linen shirt that looked like it was from North Africa or maybe India, and jeans clinging to amphetamine legs.
“You like them?” she asked, pulling her shirt above her wasp-like waist and turning around slowly, pointing out the Paparazzi label above her right buttocks. She tucked the burgundy hip strap from her thong underwear back out of site below the denim and let her shirt fall. “This style is Napolitana,” she said and sat down next to me.