I like to think of her as the woman with the space ship, a classic style flying saucer loft with a kitchenette, great location above a bakery or independent café, a bus stop nearby. Not red plastic or shiny chrome, but a subtle matte or twill – the fashionable fabric of the hour. Its landing gear is smooth as a designer heel and its port holes curtained with the priciest silk that can be bought on the intergalactic market.
Her white hair whispers from beneath her jaunty beret, like a low resolution photograph of the milky way, and the wrinkles on her face are firm and definite from her travels, she wears them like diamonds. And she knows: the French don't set the fashion trends, she goes to the source, where the light reflecting off their purse-clasps will only be seen by earth long after it has gone out of style. And she knows: her scarf lies just so against the neckline of her coat and she can carry it off when the gravity changes and the sky is flaming orange. With pursed lips, having stared down the widely-feared armies of be-tentacled Europans, she condescends to wait in line to buy a fruit cup and a meat pastry, six dollars and eighty four cents.