April, 1980, Paris, France

It is spring vacation. All of my girlfriends have gone to Spain where they will have torrid love affairs with light brown Castillians, who will rub their feet after they walk on the sand next to the Mediterranean and hold hands. I am sitting in an expensive cafe on the Champs-Elysees having a cafe au lait. That is where I met you, Lara.
My dearest Lara,
I  have researched many movies from the 1940's, but I have yet to find your haunting sad, lovely face once more. You were my friend during that long . lonely Easter spring break. What did you decide, Lara? In that tiny maid's room of the hotel where you lived, you showed me all of the paintings that your husband painted of you throughout the years. In the beginning of your twilight years, you took everyone's breath away in one way or the other. What did you decide, Lara? You were so cantankerous in restaurants, Lara. After eating half of your plate, you would always summon the waiter over to tell him that the meal was not to your liking. God, I wish I could remember the stuff you said about the food. If I made it up, it would not do you justice.. You always got a complete new meal and were not charged for the first one. I was young, so I always wanted to hide under the table; however I was not five years old and could not manage that, Lara. Lara, you made history. In the 2000's there is a T-shirt, which reads, Women who behave,. rarely make history. I do not know where this quote came from. Every single waiter in all of the restaurants that we went to knew you.
I so wanted you to live in the foyer where I lived, so I took you to see Madame, La Directrice. So, there you were, the one who had been pampered, but no longer was, the one who had been loved and still loved, and the other, Madame who longed to be pampered, to love and be loved. Even though there were rooms available, she absolutely and firmly did not want to open the doors for you. I called you and called you. I went to your hotel and you were no longer there. I could not find you, just like I cannot find you now. What did you decide, Lara? Did you sell those priceless portraits so that you could buy a tombstone for your husband?
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