SCENE: Paris, France. Daytime.
A woman sits all alone on a bench, bedecked in black, leather boots fresh from the shelves of a Parisian couturier. She moves her head slowly, and watches a procession of impossibly beautiful models slide down a cobblestone hallway, similarly dressed in black and check and leather belts sown from crocodiles and pythons and horse hides. As she turns to view their departure, her necklace jangles slightly, its smooth beads rustling from the motion, like a wind-chime.
Click. Click. Click. Click.
The sounds of the model’s stilettos reverberate through the ancient halls of her Parisian sanctuary. They blend with the chirps of birds outside that trickle in from aged French windowpanes, worn by time. The chains that bind the models jingle, and she frowns, not from sadness, but contemplation.
The choraling of birds and twinkling of fine metals and clicking of heels upon age-old stone is a symphony to her. It fills her with longing, for the embrace of a lover long-lost, or the kiss of a stranger in the din of a club, cigarette smoke clouding eyes and hearts alike. Her pearls begin rustling again, as she stands, watching the hallways ghostly visitors continue their procession of the dead.
Time passes. The hall empties of specters, slowly, and the memories of lost Parisian muses find their way back into the glass and stone and elegant chandeliers, lit by flames of a forgotten past.
The woman watches them go, and a smile spreads across her face. Brood washes into sorrow and then onto the shores of some unknown happiness. She laughs, and a new sound fills the halls. It’s the claps of Kristen Stewart, all alone at Chanel’s Métiers d’Art show.